Its heavy base descended on
the back of the detective's head with stunning force. The next
moment the battle was ended and the Doctor, panting with exhaustion,
held the limp form of an unconscious man in his arms.
He lowered the detective to the floor and straightened up again,
listening tensely. So brief and intense had been the struggle that
even now he could hardly believe in its reality. It seemed
impossible, too, that the struggle had not been heard. Then he
realized dully, as a louder roll of thunder smote on his ears, that
the elements themselves had played into his hand. The storm, with
its wind and fury, had returned just in time to save him and drown
out all sounds of conflict from the rest of the house with its giant
clamor.
He bent swiftly over Anderson, listening to his heart. Good--the
man still breathed; he had enough on his conscience without adding
the murder of a detective to the black weight. Now he pocketed the
revolver and the blue-print--gagged Anderson rapidly with a knotted
handkerchief and proceeded to wrap his own muffler around the
detective's head as an additional silencer. Anderson gave a faint
sigh.
The Doctor thought rapidly. Soon or late the detective would return
to consciousness--with his hands free he could easily tear out the
gag. He looked wildly about the room for a rope, a curtain--ah, he
had it--the detective's own handcuffs! He snapped the cuffs on
Anderson's wrists, then realized that, in his hurry, he had bound
the detective's hands in front of him instead of behind him.
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