Rex Stout - Her Forbidden Knight

Dumain retreated to the side of Booth. Sherman rose from his chair and stood in front of it. Driscoll opened his eyes for the first time, and kept them open.

The battle that followed was worth the price of a ringside seat at Madison Square Garden.

Within the first minute Knowlton discovered that the man he was facing was by no means a tyro. He had thought that Dougherty, completely out of condition, would be unable to withstand even the crudest kind of attack and had led with a double swing. Dougherty stepped back cleverly, waited the exact fraction of a second necessary, and then lunged forward like a panther.

Knowlton found himself on the floor with blood streaming from his nose, while the onlookers shrieked with ecstasy. He regained his feet warily, and, changing his mind as to the capabilities of his opponent, altered his tactics to suit.

Dougherty was fighting with all the cunning at his command. He realized that he was handicapped by the shortness of his wind, but figured that this was nearly, if not quite, equalized by the fact that Knowlton was not fresh. He did not throw himself away, as he had done in the encounter with Driscoll in the billiard room of the Lamartine. Instead, he called into play all his old-time ring knowledge and relied on superior tactics and skill. He waited for another break on the part of Knowlton.

But Knowlton was not to be caught napping again. He fought cautiously and warily, watching for an opening. He was not a pleasant sight to look at. The blood from his nose covered the lower half of his face and one side of his neck. His hair was matted with sweat, and his damp body glistened as he bent, now, forward, now to one side or the other, dodging, feinting, waiting.

For upward of five minutes they sparred and shifted, neither one gaining any advantage or landing a punishing blow. Then it began to get warmer.

Dougherty’s foot happened to alight on an upturned corner of the rug, and as he glanced downward for the merest fraction of a second Knowlton closed in and landed a stinging jab on his face, turning him half round.

Instead of returning, he completed the circle, and, catching Knowlton unaware, staggered him with a left swing. They exchanged blows at close quarters, then clinched for a rest.

Knowlton was beginning to weaken under the prolonged strain. He had played with Driscoll longer than was good for his wind, and by now he was breathing heavily, while Dougherty was comparatively fresh. He tried to hold the clinch to get his wind, but Dougherty broke away.

Then, urged on by the exited and encouraging cries of the Erring Knights, Dougherty started in to finish it. By using his feet cleverly Knowlton avoided close fighting, but he received two body blows that made him grunt.

In recovering from the second of these he opened his guard, and a clean uppercut on the point of the jaw bent him backward and left him dazed.

Dougherty followed it up savagely, landing on the body at will, while Knowlton retreated blindly, covering his face with his hands. The onlookers howled with delight.

“Now get him, Tom!”

“It’s all yours, old boy!”

“Keel heem!”

But they did not know Knowlton. Driven into a corner, apparently a beaten man, he felt within himself that stirring of the spirit that comes only on the boundary line of despair.

He had felt it before on the gridiron when, with his body a mass of bruises, he had hurled himself savagely forward and caught in a viselike grip and held the flying figure that sought to reach the sacred white line but a few feet away — on the track when, with aching legs and painful, gasping breath, he had by one last supreme effort passed the streak of white that seemed to his blurred eyes to have been there before him since the beginning of time. It is the spirit of the true fighting man.

He pushed Dougherty away from the corner, merely shaking his head slightly as he received a swinging blow full in the face. Then he fought back stubbornly, desperately, irresistibly.

Dougherty gave ground. It was by inches, but he retreated. Knowlton made no pretense at guarding. He simply fought.

The tide began to turn. Dougherty fell back more rapidly. His breath came heavily.

Perspiration ran in little rivulets down his cheeks and neck and body and stood out in large beads on his forehead. His face became fixed in a sort of unseeing stare, and his blows were wild and purposeless. He seemed unable to see his opponent.

“My God, Tom! Hit him! Can’t you hit him?” cried Driscoll.

Knowlton pressed on unwaveringly. He landed blow after blow on his opponent’s unprotected body. Dougherty attempted to swing, took a step forward, stumbled, and fell to his knees. It appeared to be the end.

But the end came from an unexpected quarter. As Dougherty fell, Sherman ran to the mantel at the end of the room, took from it a figure of bronze, and, before any one could guess his purpose, hurled it straight at Knowlton. Knowlton turned, threw up his arms, and sank to the floor with the blood streaming from a deep gash on his head just back of the temple.

For a moment there was dead silence, while all eyes were turned on Sherman. He stood motionless by the mantel, his face very white.

Then all was confusion. Dumain and Booth ran and bent over Knowlton, crying to Jennings to watch Sherman. Driscoll, by this time fully recovered, ran to Dougherty. Sherman started for the door, but was stopped by Jennings, whose eyes were filled with a dangerous light.

“Stay there, you — coward!” he bellowed.

Dougherty had pushed Driscoll aside and was kneeling by the side of Knowlton, and he at once took command of the situation.

Dumain was sent off for bandages and returned with a white linen shirt, tearing it into strips. Booth brought water and some towels, and Driscoll sought the telephone in the next room to call up a doctor. Jennings was assisting Dougherty in his attempt to stop the flow of blood.

Thus busied, they entirely overlooked Sherman.

Intercepted by Driscoll in his attempt to get away, he had returned to the farther corner of the room and had looked on at the scene of activity with an assumed indifference which did not entirely conceal his fear.

Moving suddenly, he felt his foot meet with an obstruction, and, looking down, saw Knowlton’s clothing lying in a heap on the floor.

Quick as thought, and glancing at the others to see if he were observed, he stooped down and searched the pockets of the coat and vest. A shade of disappointment crossed his face at the result.

All that he was able to find was a long, black wallet in the inside pocket of the coat.

This he transferred to his own pocket and then assumed his former position of indifference.

In a few minutes the doctor arrived. He viewed the curious scene that greeted his eyes with professional stolidity and proceeded to examine his patient, who remained lying on the floor in the position in which he had fallen.

Without a word, save now and then a grunted command for water or other assistance, the doctor examined the wound and washed, stitched, and bandaged it.

At the commencement of the operation of stitching Knowlton opened his eyes, raised a hand to his head, and struggled to rise.

“Easy... easy. Lie still,” said the doctor.

“What is it?” demanded Knowlton.

“They opened up your head,” answered the doctor, still busily engaged with the bandage. “I’m putting it together again. Can you stand it?”

Knowlton smiled and closed his eyes.

“How about it?” asked Dougherty when the doctor finally arose.

“Very simple. Merely stunned. No danger. Twenty-five dollars,” said the doctor.

“Can he go home?” asked Dumain, handing him the money.

The doctor shook his head.

“Bad — very bad. Too cold. Good night.”

He opened the door, bowed, and departed.

“He’s a talkative devil,” observed Dougherty. “But how about Knowlton?”

“I have plenty of room. He can stay here,” said Dumain.

Thus it was arranged, and John Knowlton, perforce, slept under the roof of the enemy.

Dougherty offered to stay with Dumain also, and the offer was eagerly accepted. The others departed at once in a body.

No one had anything to say to Sherman; they thought it hardly worthwhile. All’s well that ends without the police.

Knowlton walked to his bed, supported by Dougherty. He was barely conscious and very weak.

They rubbed him down with witchhazel and put woolen pajamas on him and tucked him in like a baby. Then they went into the next room and sat down for a smoke.

Fifteen minutes later, thinking they heard a voice, they returned to their patient.

The voice was his own. He was talking in his sleep half deliriously.

“Lila!” he muttered. “Good-by, Lila! You know you are to live in fairyland and — hang you, Dougherty — no, I don’t mean that — Lila—”

Dumain looked at Dougherty and said: “Zat is not for us, my friend.”

Together they tiptoed silently out of the room.

When you throw a heavy lump of hard metal at a man and hit him on the side of the head you make an impression on him. I am not assuming artlessness or naïveté — I do not mean a physical impression.

What I wish to say is that his attitude and conduct toward you will undergo a sudden and notable change. He will be filled either with fear or with a desire for vengeance.

He will either betake himself to a distance where there is little possibility that you will present him with any more lumps of metal, or he will take firm and decided steps to return the one you have given him.