Grimly Clifford began to exert his strength, himself wondering if he could carry this thing through. This hold that he had upon Bradley was a hold that he had practiced in some fractional degree of its potentialities in friendly contests--but never had he seen that hold used upon a human being to the reputed limits of its effectiveness. He recalled the avarice of this man, the brutal cunning, the ruthlessness, the devil’s misuse of power--the thousands he had bled financially, the unnumbered ones he had “framed” and whose freedom he had coldly sworn away--and Clifford was aflame with retributive rage for all those whom this man in his might had made suffer. It was as though the strength of all these sufferers had been transferred into him. Certainly he never had had such might before. Slowly, inch by inch he drew Bradley’s right arm back and downward--Bradley straining with outstanding muscles and corded ligaments to withstand the terrific leverage. The right arm reached its lowest arc, then Clifford began to bend it back and pull it up. A groan burst from Bradley--then, “Take a chance, Slim; for God’s sake, shoot!” There was a report: a bullet grazed Clifford’s scalp--it must have missed Bradley’s head by inches. Clifford, raising his set face, his eyes bulging from his own effort, saw the dazed Slim on one elbow, aiming at him again. He swung Bradley about, so that his body was a better protection, and, heaving, panting, went on drawing that straining arm up--inch by inch. Suddenly the curtains parted and Jimmie Kelly entered, behind him three of his men, Mr. Morton and Uncle George. Jimmie saw Slim’s pointed weapon following the pair, waiting its chance; and leaping in he tore it from that deadly hand. “Steady, Bob,” he cried, “and I’ll get Bradley for you!” “Keep out of this!” Clifford panted hoarsely. “I’ve got him myself.” They all stood back and stared at those straining, locked figures. The two seemed hardly to move, so tensely was the force of one set against the force of the other. But slowly, slowly, Clifford forced the right arm of Bradley up behind his back. Then summoning his all of strength, he heaved sharply and mightily upwards, as though he was lifting the very foundations of the house. There was a sharp report, almost as if Slim had shot again. A cry of agony burst from Bradley, and he went staggering across the room, and was saved from falling only by the embrace of one corner. Even so, he swayed on his feet; gasping groans came from his lips; and his right arm hung loosely at his side at a weird angle. “By God!” Uncle George ejaculated slowly. “I once said that if ever anybody got Bradley, you would be the man--and, son, you certainly did get him!” Himself reeling, struggling for breath, Clifford gazed at the face of his enemy, pulpy and bleeding and distorted with agony. “Yes, I got him,” he gasped. Dizzily he walked over to Bradley. “I got you this time, Bradley,--I got you at last!”