And then, within a few feet of the door, Jimmie Dale halted abruptly, as a woman's voice rose querulously from the hallway above: "You are making a perfect fool of yourself, Theodore Markel! Come back here to bed!" Jimmie Dale's face hardened like stone--the answer came almost from the very threshold in front of him: "I can't sleep, I tell you"-- it was Markel's voice, in a disgruntled snarl.

"I was a fool to bring the confounded thing home.

I'm going to take the library couch for the rest of the night." It happened quick, then--quick as the winking of an eye.

Two sharp, almost simultaneous, clicks of the electric-light buttons pressed by Markel, and the hall and library were a flood of light--and Jimmie Dale leaped forward to where, in dressing gown and pajamas, blankets and bedding over one arm, a revolver dangling in the other hand, Markel stood full before the door in the hallway without.
There was a wild yell of terror and surprise from Markel, then a deafening roar and a spit of flame from his revolver--a bitter, smothered exclamation from Jimmie Dale as the cash box crashed to the floor from his left hand, and he was upon the other like a tiger.
With the impact, both men went to the floor, grappled, and rolled over and over.

Half mad with fear, shock, and surprise, Markel fought like a maniac, and his voice, in gasping shouts, rang through the house.
A minute, two passed--and the men rolled about the hall floor.