He was barely out on the rain-greased tin roof, with the trap down, when Gavegan came thumping up the stairs and into the studio.

At sight of the recumbent Casey, head limply on Hunt's knees, and his loose face being laved by a wet towel in Hunt's hands, Gavegan let out another roar: "Hell's bells! What the hell's this mean ?" "I tried to nab Brainard," Casey mumbled feebly, "and he knocked me out cold--the same as he did you, Gavegan." "Hell!" snorted Gavegan, his wrath increased by this reference.

"You there"-- to Hunt and the Duchess--"where'd Brainard go?
He's in this house some place!" "I don't know," said Hunt.
"Yes, you do! Leave that boob side-kick of mine sleep it off, and help me find Brainard or you'll feel my boot!" The big painter stood up facing the big detective and his left hand gripped the latter's wrist and his right closed upon the detective's throat just as it had closed upon the lean throat of Old Jimmie on the day of Larry's return--only now there was nothing playful in the noose of that big hand.

He shook Gavegan as he might have shaken a pillow, with a thumb thrusting painfully in beneath Gavegan's ear.
"I've done nothing, and that bully stuff doesn't go with me!" he fairly spat into Gavegan's face.

"You talk to me like a gentleman and apologize, or I'll throw you out of the window and let your head bounce off one of its brother cobblestones below!" Gavegan choked out an apology, whereat Hunt flung him from him.