The gunman nodded.

“She’s the one.”

“Do you suppose Jim Westcott knew her before?  He brought her to the hotel and was mighty touchy about her.”

“Hell, no; she told me all about that—­why she cut that fellow dead in the dining-room when he tried to speak to her the next day.”

Lacy whistled a few bars, his hands thrust deep into his trouser-pockets.  Then, after a few minutes’ cogitation, he resumed: 

“All right then; we’ll take it as it lies.  The only question unsettled, Enright, is—­what is all this worth to me?”

CHAPTER XV:  MISS LA RUE PAYS A CALL

Some slight noise caused Westcott to straighten up, and turn partially around.  He had barely time to fling up one arm in the warding off of a blow.  The next instant was one of mad, desperate struggle, in which he realised only that he dare not relax his grip on the wrist of his unknown antagonist.  It was a fierce, intense grapple, every muscle strained to the utmost, silent except for the stamping of feet, deadly in purpose.

The knife fell from the cramped fingers, but the fellow struggled like a demon, clutching at the miner’s throat, but unable to confine his arms.  Twice Westcott drove his clenched right into the shadowed face, smashing it the last time so hard the man’s grip relaxed, and he went staggering back.  With a leap forward, the battle-fury on him, Westcott closed before the other could regain position.  Again the clenched fist struck and the fellow went down in the darkness, whirling backward to the earth—­and lay there, motionless.

An instant, panting, breathless, scarcely yet comprehending what had occurred, the victor stared at the huddled figure, his arm drawn back.  Then he became aware of excitement within, the sound of voices, the tramp of feet on the floor, the sudden opening of a door.  A gleam of light shot out, revealing the figures of men.  With one spring he was across the shapeless form on the ground, and had vanished into the darkness beyond.

Lacy was first to reach the unconscious body, stumbling over it in the black shadow, as he rushed forward, revolver in hand.  He cursed, rising to his knees, and staring about in the silent darkness.

“There’s a man lying here—­dead likely.  Bring a light.  No, the fellow is alive.  Dammit, it’s Moore, and completely knocked out.  Here you—­what happened?”

The fellow groaned, opened his eyes, and looked about dazedly.

“Speak up, man!” and Lacy dragged him to a sitting position in no gentle fashion.  “Who hit you?”

“There—­there was a fellow at that window there.  I—­I saw him from below, and crept up behind but he turned around just as I struck.”

“Who was he?”

“I never saw his face.  He hit me first.”

“He was at that window, you say?”

“Yes; kneelin’ down like he was lookin’ into the room.  Oh, Lord!”