Her Forbidden Knight by Rex Stout Page A

stood out in large beads on his forehead. His face became fixed in a sort of unseeing stare, and his blows were wild and purposeless. He seemed unable to see his opponent.
    “My God, Tom! Hit him! Can’t you hit him?” cried Driscoll.
    Knowlton pressed on unwaveringly. He landed blow after blow on his opponent’s unprotected body. Dougherty attempted to swing, took a step forward, stumbled, and fell to his knees. It appeared to be the end.
    But the end came from an unexpected quarter. As Dougherty fell, Sherman ran to the mantel at the end of the room, took from it a figure of bronze, and, before any one could guess his purpose, hurled it straight at Knowlton. Knowlton turned, threw up his arms, and sank to the floor with the blood streaming from a deep gash on his head just back of the temple.
    For a moment there was dead silence, while all eyes were turned on Sherman. He stood motionless by the mantel, his face very white.
    Then all was confusion. Dumain and Booth ran and bent over Knowlton, crying to Jennings to watch Sherman. Driscoll, by this time fully recovered, ran to Dougherty. Sherman started for the door, but was stopped by Jennings, whose eyes were filled with a dangerous light.
    “Stay there, you—coward!” he bellowed.
    Dougherty had pushed Driscoll aside and was kneeling by the side of Knowlton, and he at once took command of the situation.
    Dumain was sent off for bandages and returned with a white linen shirt, tearing it into strips. Booth brought water and some towels, and Driscoll sought the telephone in the next room to call up a doctor. Jennings was assisting Dougherty in his attempt to stop the flow of blood.
    Thus busied, they entirely overlooked Sherman.
    Intercepted by Driscoll in his attempt to get away, he had returned to the farther corner of the room and had looked on at the scene of activity with an assumed indifference which did not entirely conceal his fear.
    Moving suddenly, he felt his foot meet with an obstruction, and, looking down, saw Knowlton’s clothing lying in a heap on the floor.
    Quick as thought, and glancing at the others to see if he were observed, he stooped down and searched the pockets of the coat and vest. A shade of disappointment crossed his face at the result.
    All that he was able to find was a long, black wallet in the inside pocket of the coat.
    This he transferred to his own pocket and then assumed his former position of indifference.
    In a few minutes the doctor arrived. He viewed the curious scene that greeted his eyes with professional stolidity and proceeded to examine his patient, who remained lying on the floor in the position in which he had fallen.
    Without a word, save now and then a grunted command for water or other assistance, the doctor examined the wound and washed, stitched, and bandaged it.
    At the commencement of the operation of stitching Knowlton opened his eyes, raised a hand to his head, and struggled to rise.
    “Easy—easy. Lie still,” said the doctor.
    “What is it?” demanded Knowlton.
    “They opened up your head,” answered the doctor, still busily engaged with the bandage. “I’m putting it together again. Can you stand it?”
    Knowlton smiled and closed his eyes.
    “How about it?” asked Dougherty when the doctor finally arose.
    “Very simple. Merely stunned. No danger. Twenty-five dollars,” said the doctor.
    “Can he go home?” asked Dumain, handing him the money.
    The doctor shook his head.
    “Bad—very bad. Too cold. Good night.”
    He opened the door, bowed, and departed.
    “He’s a talkative devil,” observed Dougherty. “But how about Knowlton?”
    “I have plenty of room. He can stay here,” said Dumain.
    Thus it was arranged, and John Knowlton, perforce, slept under the roof of the enemy.
    Dougherty offered to stay with Dumain also, and the offer was eagerly accepted. The others departed at once in a body.
    No one had anything to say to Sherman; they thought it hardly worthwhile. All’s well that ends