He carefully shut the street door after him and turned the key. The little cashier was on the stairs now, crouching low against the wall. The Worm half listened for a “Check, please!” as he came down the corridor; but she was silent. There was, too, a suspicious, silence in the dining-room. The Worm hurried to the door. There, just within the door, stood Peter. His right coat sleeve had been ripped nearly off, at the shoulder seam, and hung down over his hand. He was fumbling at it with the left hand, frantically trying, first to roll it back, then to tear it off. Zanin, over against the farther wall, was getting heavily to his feet. He paused only an instant, then charged straight at Peter. One glance at the eminent playwright made it plain that his frenzy already was tempered with concern. He had made, it appeared, a vital miscalculation. This particular Jew _would_ fight--was, apparently, only just beginning to fight. There was blood on Zanin's cheek, trickling slowly down from a cut just under the eye. His clothes, like Peter's, were covered with the dirt of the floor. His eyes were savage. Peter again groped blindly for a weapon. His hand, ranging over the cashier's table, closed on the iron paper-weight. He threw it at the onrushing Zanin, missed his head by an inch; caught desperately at a neat little pile of silver quarters; threw these; then Zanin struck him. The thing was no longer a comedy. Zanin, a turbulent hulk of a man, was roused and dangerous. The Worm caught his arm and shoulder, shouted at him, tried to wrench the two apart. Zanin threw him off with such force that his head struck hard against the wall. The Worm saw stars. The fighters reeled, locked together, back into the dining-room, knocked over the cashier's table and fell on it. Zanin gave a groan of pain and closed his big hands on Peter's neck. The Worm ran up the stairs. Three men were sitting, very quiet, in the reading-room of the Free-woman's Club. Waters Coryell dominated. “For God's sake,” said the Worm quietly, “come down!” Waters Coryell, who professed anarchism, surveyed him coolly. “The thing to do,” he replied, “obviously, is to telephone the police.” “Telephone your aunt!” said the Worm, and ran back down-stairs. Peter and Zanin were still on the floor, at grips. But their strength seemed to have flagged. One fact, noted with relief, was that Zanin had not yet choked Peter to death. They were both purple of face; breathing hard; staring at each other. Some of Zanin's still trickling blood had transferred itself to Peter's face and mixed with the dirt there. The Worm caught up a chair, swung it over his head and cried, in deadly earnest, “You two get up or I'll smash both your heads!” They glared at each other for a moment. Then Zanin managed to catch enough breath to say-- “But the man's insane!” Peter gulped. “I am not insane! Nothing of the kind!” “Get up,” commanded the Worm.