For once he seemed at a loss.
Here was something he had omitted from his calculations. But he
did not give up. He was about to retort when--crash! thud!--the
noise of a violent struggle in the hall outside drew all eyes to the
hall door.
An instant later the door slammed open and a disheveled young man
in evening clothes was catapulted into the living-room as if slung
there by a giant's arm. He tripped and fell to the floor in the
center of the room. Billy stood in the doorway behind him,
inscrutable, arms folded, on his face an expression of mild
satisfaction as if he were demurely pleased with a neat piece of
housework, neatly carried out.
The young man picked himself up, brushed off his clothes, sought
for his hat, which had rolled under the table. Then he turned on
Billy furiously.
"Damn you--what do you mean by this?"
"Jiu-jitsu," said Billy, his yellow face quite untroubled. "Pretty
good stuff. Found on terrace with searchlight," he added.
"With searchlight?" barked Anderson.
The young man turned to face this new enemy.
"Well, why shouldn't I be on the terrace with a searchlight?" he
demanded.
The detective moved toward him menacingly.
"Who are you?"
"Who are you?" said the young man with cool impertinence, giving
him stare for stare.
Anderson did not deign to reply, in so many words. Instead he
displayed the police badge which glittered on the inside of the
right lapel of his coat. The young man examined it coolly.
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