She got unsteadily to her feet, tottered to a writing-desk and buried her face in her hands. "Does Solly--does my husband--have you told him?" she asked. "He knows nothing--yet." Labar felt some urge of sympathy for her. She was a broken creature. But his resolve to extract from her the uttermost that might help clear his path did not weaken. He felt that he had got her entirely under his sway, ready to answer tamely any questions with which he might ply her. He had cause to realise that no man could safely diagnose the reactions of Mrs. Gertstein a second later. Like a tiger-cat she sprang at him, and there was the glitter of steel in her hand. On the desk upon which she had feigned to give way there had lain an ornamental dagger kept as a paperknife. This was the weapon with which she now thrust fiercely and silently at him. He was taken almost entirely off his guard, and had but half-risen to meet the assault, when he felt the bite of the steel in his side. He clutched at her wrist but she avoided him, and he swung a half-arm blow at her face as she swung away. This was no time for any chivalrous methods of fighting. She meant murder. She held off for a second, her face flushed, her hair dishevelled, her breath coming in quick, sharp gusts. She watched him warily and as he cautiously swayed towards her she leapt at him again. This time, however, he was ready. He parried the vicious blow that she aimed at his heart with his arm, and catching her by the waist flung her with all his force backwards to the floor. Almost simultaneously he hurled himself at her, and this time he succeeded in seizing the wrist that held the dagger. Harry Labar was reckoned a strong man, but the woman fought with dynamic, maniacal strength. He felt her body writhe and twist beneath him, and a little ornamental table crashed as she tried to pull herself away. Once she snapped at him with her teeth like some maddened animal. He found a grip for his other hand and pinned her down till her hysterical strength should have waned. Her fingers relaxed and the dagger dropped to the soft carpet. He felt the tension of her resistance dwindle till at length she was a limp figure in his hold. Slowly and cautiously he got to his feet and picked up the dagger. Not a word had come from either of them during the struggle. Indeed the whole affair had been but a matter of seconds. She continued prostrate on the floor, but her wide open and alert eyes belied any idea that she had fainted. Watching her warily meanwhile he removed his coat and waistcoat and examined his wound. There was a deal of blood but as far as he could see the hurt itself was superficial. He wedged a handkerchief in his clothing as a temporary expedient, and resumed his garments. The woman had not moved. "Get up," he ordered, grimly. Slowly she rose. CHAPTER XIII "What are you going to do now?" she asked in a strained unnatural voice.