I felt that, for a moment at least,
the fatal influence of Paton upon me was broken. But what was that
sound of a struggle--those cries and gasps, that seemed to come from an
adjoining room?
I sprang forward, opened a door, and beheld a tall old man, with white
hair and beard, in the grasp of a ruffian whom I at once recognized as
the portier. A broken window showed how he had effected his entrance.
One hand held the old man by the throat; in the other was a knife,
which he was prevented from using by a young woman, who had flung
herself upon him in such a way as to trammel his movements. In another
moment, however, he would have shaken her off.
But that moment was not allowed him. I seized him with a strength that
amazed myself--a strength which never came upon me before or since. The
conflict lasted but a breath or two; I hurled him to the floor, and, as
he fell, his right arm was doubled under him, and the knife which he
held entered his back beneath the left shoulder-blade. When I rose up
from the whirl and fury of the struggle, I saw the old man reclining
exhausted on the bosom of the girl.
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