A blow on his left wrist and the whistle fell into the
road. A dark figure had sprung up, apparently from space; a long
arm was twined around Pritchard's neck, bending him backwards;
there was a gleam of steel within a few inches of his throat.
And then Tavernake saw a wonderful thing. With a turn of his
wrist, Pritchard suddenly seemed to lift the form of his
assailant into the air. Tavernake caught a swift impression of a
man's white face, the head pointing to the street, the legs
twitching convulsively. Head over heels Pritchard seemed to
throw him, while the knife clattered harmlessly into the roadway.
The man lay crumpled up and moaning before the door of one of the
houses. Pritchard sprang after him. The door had been
cautiously opened and the man crawled through; Pritchard
followed; then the door closed and Tavernake beat upon it in
vain.
For several seconds--it seemed to Tavernake much longer--he stood
gazing at the door, breathing heavily, absolutely unable to
collect his thoughts. The whole affair had happened with such
amazing celerity! He could not bring himself to realize it, to
believe that it was Pritchard who had been with him only a few
seconds ago, who in danger of his life had performed that
marvelous trick of jiu-jutsu, had followed his unknown assailant
into that dark, mysterious house, from no single window of which
was a single gleam of light visible. Tavernake had led an
uneventful life. Of the passions which breed murder and the
desire to kill he knew nothing.
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