She realized there was no changing him. She glimpsed a closet door
behind him, and caught at the chance of saving at least a fragment of
her drama.
"Stay, then but, Larry, please give me a chance to do what I want to
do! Please!" By this time she had dragged him across the room and had
started to unlock the closet. "Just wait in here--and keep quiet!
Please!"
He took the key from her fumbling hands, unlocked the door, and
slipped the key into his pocket. "All right--I'll give you your
chance," he promised.
He stepped through the door and closed it upon himself, entombing
himself in blackness. The next moment the glare of a pocket flash was
in his face, blinding him.
"Larry Brainard!" gritted a low voice in the darkness.
Larry could see nothing, but there was no mistaking that voice. "Red
Hannigan!" he exclaimed.
"Yes--you damned squealer! And I'm going to finish you off right
here!"
The light clicked out, and a pair of lean hands almost closed on
Larry's wind-pipe. But Larry caught the wrists of the older man in a
grip the other could not break. There was a brief struggle in the
blackness of the closet, then the slighter man stood still with his
wrists manacled by Larry's hands.
"Evidently you haven't a gun on you, Red, or you, wouldn't have tried
this," Larry commented.
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