From his knees, in one bound, Jimmie flung himself toward his avenue of
escape.
It was blocked by the bulky form of Preston, the butler.
Jimmie turned and doubled back to the door of the living-room. He found
himself confronted by his wife.
The sleeve of her night-dress had fallen to her shoulder and showed her
white arm extended toward him. In her hand, pointing, was an automatic
pistol.
Already dead, Jimmie feared nothing but discovery.
The door to the living-room was wide enough for two. With his head down
he sprang toward it. There was a report that seemed to shake the walls,
and something like the blow of a nightstick knocked his leg from under
him and threw him on his back. The next instant Preston had landed with
both knees on his lower ribs and was squeezing his windpipe.
Jimmie felt he was drowning. Around him millions of stars danced. And
then from another world, in a howl of terror, the voice of Preston
screamed. The hands of the butler released their hold upon his throat.
As suddenly as he had thrown himself upon him he now recoiled.
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