Crease removed his cigar from his lips and rose slowly to his feet.  From his waistcoat pocket he produced a small phial, from which he drew the cork.

“Seems to me it’s up to us to do the trick,” he remarked languidly.  “Catch hold of his forehead, Jimmy.”

The man known as Major Post threw away his cigarette, and coming round behind Pritchard’s chair, suddenly bent the man’s head backward.  Crease advanced, phial in hand.  Then all Hell seemed to be let loose in Tavernake.  He stepped back in his place and marked the extent of that wooden partition.  Then, setting his teeth, he sprang at it, throwing the great weight of his massive shoulder against the framework door.  Scratched and bleeding, but still upon his feet, he burst into the room, with the noise of bricks falling behind,—­an apparition so unexpected that the little company gathered there seemed turned into some waxwork group from the Chamber of Horrors—­motionless, without even the power of movement.

Tavernake, in those few moments, was like a giant among a company of degenerates.  He was strong, his muscles were like whipcord, and his condition was perfect.  Walter Crease went over like a log before his fist; Major Post felt the revolver at which he had snatched struck from his hand, and he himself remembered nothing more till he came to his senses some time afterwards.  A slash and a cut and Pritchard was free.  The professor stood wringing his hands.  Elizabeth had risen to her feet.  She was pale, but she was still more nearly composed than any other person in the room.  Tavernake and Pritchard were masters of the situation.  Pritchard leaned toward the mirror and straightened his tie.

“I am afraid,” he said looking down at Walter Crease’s groaning figure, “that our hosts are scarcely in fit condition to take leave of us.  Never mind, Mrs. Gardner, we excuse ourselves to you.  I cannot pretend to be sorry that my friend’s somewhat impetuous entrance has disturbed your plans for the evening, but I do hope that you will realize now the fatuousness of such methods in these days.  Good-night!  It is time we finished our stroll together, Tavernake.”

They moved towards the door—­there was no one to stop them.  Only the professor tried to say a few words.

“My dear Mr. Pritchard—­my dear Pritchard, if you will allow me to call you so,” he exclaimed, “let me beg of you, before you leave us, not to take this trifling adventure too seriously!  I can assure you that it was simply an attempt to coerce you, not in the least an affair to be taken seriously!”

Pritchard smiled.

“Professor,” he said, “and you, Walter Crease, and you, Jimmy Post, if you’re able to listen, listen to me.

You have played the part of children to-night.  So surely as men and women exist who live as you do, so surely must the law wait upon their heels.  You cannot cheat justice.  It is as inexorable as Time itself.  When you try these little tricks, you simply give another turn to the wheel, add another danger to life.  You had better learn to look upon me as necessary, all of you, for I am certainly inevitable.”