Dawson acted with all his speed. He threw himself toward the floor sideways, grasping his pistol as he fell. The gun in the hands of the negro roared, flamed; the smoke blinded Dawson's eyes, stung his nostrils. He fumbled with the trigger of his pistol. Cole's foot shot out; the chair between them bounded grotesquely at him, crashing into his arm, spoiling his aim. He heard the pistol click again. He rose, aiming. As he saw the direct flare of the hot breath toward him, his own pistol clicked impotently. At dizzy speed his mind traveled--should he try again, or swing the cylinder to the next shell? How had the negro missed him at that distance? Then came the sense of the terrific blow caving in his ribs, gutting its way throughout his inside. His huge face, which seemed to the negro to reach almost to the ceiling, gasped into a wrenched grimace of pain; the eyes closed, the mouth popped oddly open, like a frog's. An explosive intake of breath shivered horribly. Ed Cole retreated in terror, aiming the pistol again, his eyes fascinated by the dark dampness spilling over the crumpled white nightgown. Then his eyes came back to the face. Steadied against the wall, the wounded mountain that had been a man fumbled at the weapon. His fingers edged open spasmodically. The pistol clattered against the fallen chair. The great paws reached out toward the negro's face; Cole could imagine their wide clutch rounding his neck. Then they doubled up abruptly, the big form swayed, the knees collapsed, the body crumpled upon the stained floor. Throwing his pistol out of the window, Ed Cole ran for the stairs. Halfway down he stumbled, crashing noisily into the wooden railing. The clerk dozed, half-awake, trying to make up his mind whether the noise he had heard above called for an investigation or not. He jerked to his feet, his hand aimed for the drawer where his automatic was kept. Before he had reached it, the negro was in the street. The clerk ran to the doorway, shouting unintelligibly. Half a block away, two policemen lounging before the station had straightened at the first shot. They saw the running form almost as soon as they started for the hotel. A negro! "Hai! Stop there, you damn' nigger, or we'll shoot you----" Ed halted, hands in the air. "Ah ain't done nothin'." The second officer searched him, while the other kept the big automatic rubbed against his stomach. "Nothin' doin', Jim." "What was that shot back there?" Ed Cole's wits came back to him. "A white gen'lman, suh, he shot me, an' Ah shot back at him." "I've a mind to kill you now. Let's give him twenty feet, Jim, then let him have it!" Cole's arteries seemed frozen. "It was--it was dat union feller, suh--Mr. Dawson. He drawed a gun on me fu'st." A peculiar look passed from one policeman to another, an expression significant with doubt. There was more in this than mere murder. "Come with us, nigger. If you try any tricks----" The pistol bored into his back.