"A little--rough, Mr. Flowers," he panted, "a trifle--rough with you--I
fear--but I want you--to know that you--shall not utter--her name--in my
presence. Now the key--I prefer door to window--the key, Mr.
Flowers--ah, here it is!" So saying, Ravenslee stood upright, and wiping
blood and sweat from him with his sleeve, turned to the door. "One other
thing, Mr. Flowers; have the goodness to take off your neckerchief next
time, or I--may strangle you outright."
Halfway down the passage Ravenslee turned to see Murder close on his
heels. Once he smote and twice, but nothing might stay that bull-like
rush and, locked in a desperate clinch, he was borne back and back,
their trampling lost in the universal din about them, as reeling,
staggering, they crashed out through wrecked and splintered door and,
still locked together, were swallowed in the night beyond.
Thus the Spider, crouching in the dark beneath the broken window with
Spike beside him, was presently aware of the sickening sounds of furious
struggling close at hand, and of a hoarse, panting voice that cursed in
fierce triumph--a voice that ended all at once in a ghastly strangling
choke; and recognising this voice, the Spider hunched his great
shoulders and bore Spike to a remote spot where stood a solitary
lamp-post.
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