They looked meaningly at each other, but neither moved to leave the room. The cry had sounded so piteous that I should myself have rushed out to ascertain whence it came. Was it Vera's voice? Paulton was near the door, and to have passed him would have been impossible. Was it my Vera? The thought held me in a frenzy. "There is only one way," he went on, as though nothing had happened, "for you to regain your liberty. I should not offer even this, had not the Baronne persuaded me to against my better judgment." "What is the way?" "You must never attempt to see Vera again. And you, Faulkner, must write at once to Gladys Deroxe and break off your engagement. It is the only alternative. Do you both agree?" Neither of us answered. The suggestion was a childlike one. "Is there no other way?" I asked at last in order to gain time. "None." "Then I refuse absolutely," Faulkner exclaimed hotly. "Your proposal is ridiculous," I declared with a grin. Paulton turned furiously on the Baronne. "I said what it would be!" he broke out with a curse. "Get out of my way!" She had sprung in front of him, but he pushed her aside. Again she rushed forward to stop his doing something--we had not guessed what it was--and this time he struck her a blow in the face with his open hand, and with a cry she fell forward on to the bed. Beside myself, I leapt forward, but Faulkner was nearer to him and I saw his fist fly out. I did not know then that Faulkner had won "friendly bouts" against professional light-weight boxers at the National Sporting Club. It was a stunning blow, Faulkner's fist hit him on the mouth, at what boxers call the "crucial moment," that is, just before the arm straightens. Paulton reeled backward, his lower lip rent almost to the chin. His hand disappeared. Now it flashed out with a Browning pistol, but as the shot rang out the woman leapt to her feet and struck his arm away. An instant later Faulkner was behind him deftly twisting his left arm so that he bent backward with a scream of pain. I had wrested the weapon from him ere he could shoot again, and as I helped Faulkner to hold him down I realised the man's colossal strength. Mad with fury, and with blood pouring from his mouth, he struggled to get free. But the twisted arm that Faulkner still clutched tightly by the wrist with both hands, kept him down. Suddenly he changed his tactics. He had wormed himself half round on the floor, his teeth closed tightly upon Faulkner's right shoulder. "Twist his right arm--quick!" Faulkner shouted at me. I did so, and the man lay flat upon his back, his two arms screwed so tightly that I marvelled they did not break.