He turned,
and stared at the leveled muzzle of Anderson's revolver.
"Hands up and stand back!" he commanded.
As he did so Anderson picked up the paper and a sardonic smile
crossed his face as his eyes took in the significance of the print.
He laid his revolver down on the table where he could snatch it
up again at a moment's notice.
"Behind a fireplace, eh?" he muttered. "What fireplace? In what
room?"
"I won't tell you!" The Doctor's voice was sullen. He inched,
gingerly, cautiously, toward the other side of the table.
"All right--I'll find it, you know." The detective's eyes turned
swiftly back to the blue-print. Experience should have taught him
never to underrate an adversary, even of the Doctor's caliber, but
long familiarity with danger can make the shrewdest careless. For
a moment, as he bent over the paper again, he was off guard.
The Doctor seized the moment with a savage promptitude and sprang.
There followed a silent, furious struggle between the two. Under
normal circumstances Anderson would have been the stronger and
quicker, but the Doctor fought with an added strength of despair
and his initial leap had pinioned the detective's arms behind him.
Now the detective shook one hand free and snatched at the revolver
--in vain--for the Doctor, with a groan of desperation, struck at
his hand as its fingers were about to close on the smooth butt and
the revolver skidded from the table to the floor. With a sudden
terrible movement he pinioned both the detective's arms behind him
again and reached for the telephone.
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