I leaped.  The fury of a thousand conflicts—­and the exultation.  For the glory of such moments it is well worth dying.  One minute flying through the air—­the old catapult tackle—­and the next a crashing of bone and sinew.  We rolled over, head on, and across the floor.  Curses and execrations; the deep bass voice of Hobart: 

“Hold him, Harry!  Hold him!  That’s the way!  Hold him!  Hold him!”

We went crashing about the room.  He was the slipperiest thing I had ever laid hold of.  But he was bone—­bone and sinew; he was a man!  I remember the wild thrill of exultation at the discovery.  It was battle!  And death!  The table went over, we went spinning against the wall, a crash of falling bookcases, books and broken glass, a scurry and a flying heap of legs and arms.  He was wonderfully strong and active, like a panther.  Each time I held him he would twist out like a cat, straighten, and throw me out of hold.  I clung on, fighting, striving for a grip, working for the throat.  He was a man—­a man!  I remembered that he must never get away.  He must account for Watson.

In the first rush I was a madman.  The mere force of my onslaught had borne him down.  But in a moment he had recovered and was fighting systematically.  As much as he could he kept over on one side of me, always forcing me toward the inner room where Watson had disappeared.  In spite of my fury he eluded every effort that I made for a vital part.  We rolled, fought, struck and struggled.

I could hear Hobart’s bass thundering:  “Over!  Over!  Under!  Look out!  Now you’ve got him!  Harry!  Harry!  Look out!  Hold him, for the love of Heaven I see his trick.  That’s his trick.  The Blind Spot!”

We were rolled clear over, picked, heaved, shoved against the front wall.  There were three!  The great heaving bulk of Fenton; the fighting tiger between us; and myself!  Surely such strength was not human; we could not pin him; his quickness was uncanny; he would uncoil, twist himself and throw us loose.  Gradually he worked us away from the front wall and into the centre of the room.

Could any mere man fight so?  Hobart was as good as a ton; I was as much for action.  Slowly, slowly in spite of our efforts, he was working us towards the Blind Spot.  Confident of success, he was over, around, and in and under.  In a spin of a second he went into the attack.  He fairly bore us off our feet.  We were on the last inch of our line; the stake was—­

What was it?  We all went down.  A great volume of sound!  We were inside a bell!  My whole head buzzed to music and a roar; the whir of a thousand vibrations; the inside of sound.  I fell face downwards; the room went black.

What was it?  How long I lay there I don’t know.  A dim light was burning.  I was in a room.  The ceiling overhead was worked in a grotesque pattern; I could not make it out.  My clothes were in tatters and my hand was covered with blood.  Something warm was trickling down my face.  What was it?  The air was still and sodden.  Who was this man beside me?  And what was this smell of roses?