The third factor stood in the doorway, slender and tall, in evening dress,--as was Maitland,--a light, full overcoat hanging open from his shoulders; one hand holding back the curtain, the other arrested on the light switch. His lips dropped open and his eyes, too, were protruding with amazement. Feature for feature he was the counterpart of the man before him; in a word, here was the real Anisty. The wonder of it all saved the day for Maitland; Anisty's astonishment was sincere and the more complete in that, unlike Maitland, he had been unprepared to find any one in the library. For a mere second his gaze left Maitland and traveled on to the girl, then to the rifled safe--taking in the whole significance of the scene. When he spoke, it was as if dazed. "By God!" he cried--or, rather, the syllables seemed to jump from his lips like bullets from a gun. The words shattered the tableau. On their echo Maitland sprang and fastened his fingers around the other's throat. Carried off his feet by the sheer ferocity of the assault, Anisty gave ground a little. For an instant they were swaying back and forth, with advantage to neither. Then the burglar's collar slipped and somehow tore from its stud, giving Maitland's hands freer play. His grasp tightened about the man's gullet; he shook him mercilessly. Anisty staggered, gasping, reeled, struck Maitland once or twice upon the chest,--feeble, weightless elbow-jabs that went for nothing, then concentrated his energies in a vain attempt to wrench the hands from his throat. Reeling, tearing at Maitland's wrists, face empurpling, eyes staring in agony, he stumbled. Mercilessly Maitland forced him to his knees and bullied him across the floor toward the nearest lounge--with premeditated design; finally succeeding in throwing him flat; and knelt upon his chest, retaining his grip but refraining from throttling him. As it was, all strength and thought of resistance had been choked out of Anisty. He lay at length, gasping painfully. Maitland glanced over his shoulders and saw the girl moving forward, apparently making for the switch. "No!" he cried, peremptory. "Don't turn off the light--please!" "But--" she doubted. "Let me have those curtain cords, if you please," he requested shortly. She followed his gaze to the windows, interpreted his wishes, and was very quick to carry them out. In a trice she was offering him half a dozen of the heavy, twisted silk cords that had been used to loop back the curtains. Soft yet strong, they were excellently well adapted to Maitland's needs. Unceremoniously he swung his captive over on his side, bringing his neck and ankles in juxtaposition to the legs of that substantial piece of furniture, the lounge.