Mary did not speak at once. She was even more pale than before; she was breathing rapidly, almost panting, and her eyes were even more staringly wide. Clifford, his heart pounding, wondered at her prolonged silence--wondered feverishly just what was passing in that bold, daring, worldly mind, which he had found to be so many different minds. She turned and gave Clifford a long, direct look--a bewildered, almost startled look. Then she sharply caught her breath, and slowly wheeling she moved a step nearer Mr. Morton. “Mr. Morton,” she began in a low, strained voice, “I want to tell you something--I want to tell you everything--” “Stop!” came a frantic cry from Loveman--and Clifford again saw fear in Loveman’s large, protuberant eyes. In an instant what had been a bewildered tableau became a whirl of activity. Bradley’s right hand darted for the electric-light switch, and before Clifford could move there was a click and the room was in darkness. A shrill two notes, which Clifford knew to be a signal, sounded from Bradley’s lips. Clifford sprang toward where he had last seen Bradley, and collided with that burly figure with so great an impact that both went crashing to the floor, Clifford on top. Clifford had not drawn his automatic; he wanted no shooting affray--not in this darkness where bullets would be impartial and irresponsible. But instinct told him Bradley’s probable first tactic; and he reached for Bradley’s right hand, and fortunately caught the wrist. Sure enough, the right hand was jerking out a heavy pistol. With both hands Clifford seized the weapon, and tried to twist it from the other’s hand; and grunting, twisting, the two old enemies fought in the darkness. Clifford heard the door open and sharply close, heard Mary cry out--and then heard another struggle, with Mary gasping. He gave a desperate wrench, and the pistol was his: he did not then know that his comparatively easy victory over the powerful Bradley was over a half-dazed man--that his catapultic leap had driven the falling Bradley’s head against the corner of the table. Raising the pistol, held club-wise, Clifford twice struck at where Bradley’s head should be. At the second blow Bradley’s grappling arms relaxed, and he was suddenly limp. Clifford sprang to his feet, fumbled for the switch, found it, and turned it on. Out of the blackness there leaped before Clifford’s eyes the other struggle, Mary Regan its center, her cloak torn loose and slipping from one shoulder. Loveman was gripping her left arm, and Hilton had her struggling right arm in a twisting clutch. A tiny bright something flashed in Hilton’s right hand and made a stab at the white arm he held.