I ran and closed the two doors. Then I guided Natalie into the far corner and placed her on a chair, putting her hands behind her as though tied. I ran to the wall and tore down the instrument there, spreading the wires well apart and tucking them far back into the hole in the plaster which the instrument had left. There was a couch in the room, and my next move was to roll the Russian under it and out of sight. “Behind the door, Larry!” I whispered. As he took up his position, where the door opening into the hall would conceal him, I ran to the fireplace, picked up a poker that lay in it, and darted back to Larry. “Get the second man as he comes in,” I whispered; “I’ll take care of the first one!” Then I ran back to Natalie and stood facing her, my back to the door. I had just taken up my position when the door was flung open and two men rushed into the room. There was a babble of Russian, the two evidently taking me for the gagged and bound watcher, as I had hoped. Then I drew my revolver, turned and covered the first man, just as the poker descended upon the head of the second. The latter dropped without a sound. “Oh!” gasped Natalie. “That’s—that’s the man who struck me. He—he struck me!” she repeated, like an incredulous child. “Throw up your hands!” I told him savagely. The man’s hands went up over his head with a certain airy grace. “And, pray, who are you?” he demanded calmly, in a slightly mincing voice, and in excellent English. “He was at the luncheon,” Natalie gasped. “Mrs. Fawcette introduced him to me and he took me in to the next room to show me some pictures. Then something pricked my arm, and when I woke up I was here—and—and he struck me!” “Search him, Larry!” I cried. Larry produced a long, slender sheathed knife from the inside of the man’s trouser band, and a small instrument, the duplicate of the air-revolver Moore had taken from the stranger he shot in my room. Then I threw my own revolver on the couch and started for the airy and well-dressed newcomer. It was not a pretty sight. But I don’t believe Natalie minded that side of it much. The Russian knew something about boxing, and he evidently knew what was coming when I started for him, for he put up his hands in the most approved style. My own hands were still raw and sore from the encounter in Moore’s house the day before, and they were almost devoid of flesh on the knuckles when I got through with the Russian. But I’m sure I did not mind that; for I left him raw and bleeding, lying in the corner, his clothes torn and his face unrecognizable. Even then I only refrained from dragging him to his feet again for some more because Natalie cried out in pity. “And that’ll teach you to strike women, you swine!” I told him at last. But the Russian only moaned.