geant went backward in his chair, and lay on the floor dazed. Phelps leaped forward, crouching; but the Major's knee shot upward and caught him in the lower abdomen. He sank to the floor, where he rolled back and forth groaning.
The Major then turned on Markham. His eyes were glaring like a maniac's, and his lips were drawn back. His nostrils dilated with each stertorous breath. His shoulders were hunched, and his arms hung away from his body, his fingers rigidly flexed. His attitude was the embodiment of a terrific, uncontrolled malignity.
"You're next!" The words, guttural and venomous, were like a snarl.
As he spoke he sprang forward.
Vance, who had sat quietly during the mêlée, looking on with half-closed eyes and smoking indolently, now stepped sharply round the end of the table. His arms shot forward. With one hand he caught the Major's right wrist; with the other he grasped the elbow. Then he seemed to fall back with a swift pivotal motion. The Major's pinioned arm was twisted upward behind his shoulder-blades. There was a cry of pain, and the man suddenly relaxed in Vance's grip.
By this time Heath had recovered. He scrambled quickly to his feet and stepped up. There was the click of handcuffs, and the Major dropped heavily into a chair, where he sat moving his shoulder back and forth painfully.
"It's nothing serious," Vance told him. "The capsular ligament is torn a little. It'll be all right in a few days."
