An atmosphere of primitive passion filled the room. She cowered away, watching the rivals with fascinated eyes, like a squaw for whom two braves unsheath their knives. Both were big, powerful men. Satterthwaite made no movement while Tremaine flung aside his coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeves--but his eyes were warily alert and his fists clenched massively at the end of the arms held loosely ready for sudden action. With a savage bellow of maddened hatred, Tremaine rushed at him blindly. Satterthwaite’s right arm jerked up to guard--and like lightning his left fist shot out from the shoulder, crashed full between his adversary’s eyes. Tremaine went over backward, arms in the air, his head striking the table with an impact that shattered glass and crockery, rolled over to the floor. He lay motionless. His wife had darted to his side, bent over him. “Oh, Jack!” she cried, looking up to the victor. “You haven’t killed him?” Satterthwaite bent over him also. “No,” he said. “Get some water!” She took the jug from the table and Satterthwaite splashed his face. Tremaine drew a difficult breath, opened his eyes, looked up and around him, dazed. “Where am I?” he asked, feebly. “You’re all right,” said Satterthwaite, bathing away the blood which trickled down his nose. “Don’t worry.” Still half-stunned, the stricken man made an abortive, ill-coördinated effort to rise. “Here, let me help you,” said Satterthwaite. “Get into this chair.” He lifted him up, supported him to a big armchair by the fireplace, deposited him in it. “Thanks,” said Tremaine, feebly, “--extremely good of you.” He looked around him with vacant eyes. “Where am I? What happened?--I--I was in a street-car----” Satterthwaite shot a swift glance of intelligence to the young woman who was, after all, his wife as well. She drew near, her breath held at a sudden possibility, her eyes searching the face of this man who but a moment before had so uncompromisingly claimed her. Had he----? “Don’t worry about anything now,” said Satterthwaite, kindly. “You’ll feel better in a moment.” His erstwhile adversary smiled up vacantly into his face. “I’m better now,” he said, passing his hand gropingly across his brow. Then, as he removed it, he stared stupidly at the blood upon his fingers. “What happened?” he asked, weakly. “How did I get here? I was in a street-car--was there an accident?--I remember the street-car----” “You’ll remember all about it presently,” Satterthwaite assured him, watching him narrowly with critical eyes. “I suppose you brought me here,” he continued in his dazed voice. “Very kind of you--I’m much obliged.” He looked round, perceived the young woman with the water-jug in her hand, and smiled feebly. “Your wife, I presume?--I’m very sorry, madam,” he added, politely, “to put you to so much inconvenience.”