Midway he stopped, as if debating what course to pursue.

He made a splendid mark, facing his concealed enemy at two hundred yards' distance.

Sheldon aimed at the centre of his chest, then deliberately shifted the aim to his right shoulder, and, with the thought, "That will put him out of business," pulled the trigger.

The bullet, driving with momentum sufficient to perforate a man's body a mile distant, struck Tudor with such force as to pivot him, whirling him half around by the shock of its impact and knocking him down.
"'Hope I haven't killed the beggar," Sheldon muttered aloud, springing to his feet and running forward.
A hundred feet away all anxiety on that score was relieved by Tudor, who made shift with his left hand, and from his automatic pistol hurled a rain of bullets all around Sheldon.

The latter dodged behind a palm trunk, counting the shots, and when the eighth had been fired he rushed in on the wounded man.