“Oh, you are, are you!” said Dyckman. “Well, you're the very chap I'm looking for. Come in, by all means.” Connery, seeing that the initiative was slipping from Gilfoyle's flaccid hand, pushed forward with truculence. “None of that, you big bluff! You needn't think you can put anything over on me.” “And who are you?” said Dyckman. “I'm Connery the detective, and I've got the goods on you.” He advanced on Dyckman, and Gilfoyle came with him. Gilfoyle took courage from the puzzled confusion of Dyckman, and he poured forth invectives. “You think because you're rich you can go around breaking up homes and decoying wives away, do you? Not that she isn't willing enough to be decoyed! I wasn't good enough for her. She had to sell herself for money and jewelry and a gay time! I ought to kill you both, and maybe I will; but first I'm going to show you up in the newspapers.” “Oh, you are, are you!” was the best that Dyckman could improvise. “Yes, he is,” Connery roared. “I'm a newspaper man, and your name's worth head-lines in every paper in the country. And I'll see that it gets there, too. It will go on the wires to-night unless--” “Unless what?” “Unless you come across with--” “Oh, that's it, is it!” said Dyckman. “Just a little old-fashioned blackmail!” He had tasted the joys of violence in his bout with Cheever, and now he had recourse to it again. His long arms went out swiftly toward the twain of his assailants. His big hands cupped their heads as if they were melons, and he knocked their skulls together smartly. He might have battered them to death, but he heard Kedzie's little cry of horror, and forbore. He flung the heads from him, and the bodies followed limply. Connery went to the floor, and Gilfoyle sprawled across a chair. They were almost unconscious, their brains reduced to swirling nebulae. Kedzie thought for a moment that she and her love-affairs had brought about a double murder. She saw herself becoming one of those little women who appear with an almost periodic regularity in the annals of crime, and whose red smiles drag now this, now that great family's name into the mud and vomit of public nausea. She would lose Jim Dyckman, after all, and ruin him in the losing. She clung to his arm to check him in his work of devastation. He, too, stood wondering at the amazing deed of his rebellious hands, and wondering what the result would be. He and Kedzie rejoiced at seeing the victims move. Connery began to squirm on the floor and get to his wabbly knees, and Gilfoyle writhed back to consciousness with wits a-flutter. There was a silence of mutual attention for a while. Connery was growling from all-fours like a surly dog: “I'll get you for this--you'll see! You'll be sorry for this.” This restored Dyckman's temper to its throne. He seized Connery by the scruff of his coat, jerked him to his feet, and snarled at him: