Simon went on in the dark. He had eyes like a cat, anyway; and, in the circumstances, there might be peculiar dangers about a light. . . . Then it occurred to him that there might be other live wires about, and he had no urge to die that way. He stopped abruptly.
At the same time he found that he could no longer hear Hallin. On his right he heard a muffled purling of water; behind him Teal was still stumbling sulphurously through the gloom, hopelessly lost. The detective must have been striking matches, but Simon could not see them. A rise of ground must have cut them off.
Warily the Saint felt around for another boulder, and switched on his torch as he had done before. The result startled him. Hallin's face showed up instantly in the glare, pale and twisted, scarcely a yard away; then Hallin's hand with the gun; beyond Hallin, the ground simply ceased. . . .
'Precious,' said the Saint, 'I have been looking forward to this.'
He hurled himself full length, in a magnificent standing tackle; his arms twined around Hallin's knees. Over his head, the automatic banged once, but the light did not go out. Then they crashed down together.
The Saint let go, and writhed up like an eel. He caught Hallin's right wrist, and smashed the hand against a stone. The gun dropped.
Simon snatched it up, scrambling to his feet as he did so; and one sweep of his arm sent the weapon spinning far out into the gulf.
The Saint laughed, standing up in the light.
'In the name of Teddy Everest,' he said, 'this is our party. Get up, Miles Hallin, you dog!'
8
Hallin got up. He was shorter than the Saint by three or four inches, but twice as heavy in the bone, with tremendous arms and shoulders. And he came in like a charging buffalo.
Simon sidestepped the first rush with cool precision, and shot in a crisp left that caught Hallin between the eyes with a smack like a snapped stick; but Hallin simply turned, blinking, and came again.
The Saint whistled softly through his teeth.
He really wasn't used to people taking those punches quite so stoically. When he hit a man like that, it was usually the beginning of the end of the fight; but Hallin was pushing up his plate for a second helping as if he liked the diet. Well, maybe the light was bad, thought the Saint; and accurate timing made a lot of difference. . . . And again he side stepped, exactly as before, and felt the blow which he landed jolt right up his arm; but this time he collected a smashing drive to the ribs in return. It hurt him; but Hallin didn't seem to be hurt. . . .
The Saint whistled even more softly.
So there was something in Hallin, after all. The man fought in a crouch that made scoring difficult. His arms covered his body, and he kept his chin well down in his chest; he wasn't easy. . . .
The Saint circled round to get his back to the light, and for the third time Hallin rushed at him. Simon went in to meet him. His left swung over in a kind of vertical hook that stroked down Hallin's nose, and Hallin raised his arms involuntarily.
Lashing into the opening, the Saint went for the body-right, left, right. He heard Hallin grunt to the thud of each blow, and he smiled.
They closed.
Simon knew what would come next. He was old in the game. He wrenched his body round, and took the upward kick of Hallin's knee on the muscles under his thigh. At the same moment he jerked Hallin's other leg from under him, and they went down together.
Hallin fought like a fiend. His strength was terrific. They rolled over and over, away out of the light of the torch, into the darkness, with Hallin's hands fumbling for the Saint's eyes. . . . The Saint knew that one also. He grabbed one of Hallin's fingers, and twisted; it broke with a sharp crack, and Hallin screamed. . . .
The Saint tore himself away. He was rising to one knee when his other foot seemed to slip into space. He clutched wildly, and found a hold on the roots of a bush; then Hallin caught him again. With a superhuman heave the Saint dragged himself another foot from the edge of the precipice; and then his handhold came clean out of the ground, bringing a lump of turf with it. He dashed it into Hallin's face.
They fought on the very brink of the precipice. Simon lost count of the number of blows he took, and the number he gave. In the darkness it was impossible to aim, and just as impossible to guard. One of them would get a hand free, and hit out savagely at the dark; then the other would do the same; sometimes they scored, sometimes they missed. The rocks bruised them at every movement; once they crashed through a bush, and the twigs tore the Saint's face.
Then he landed again, a pile-driving half-arm jolt that went home, and Hallin lay still.
Gasping, the Saint relaxed. . . .
And at once Hallin heaved up titanically under him, and something more than a fist struck the side of the Saint's head.
If it had struck a direct blow Simon's skull would have been cracked like an eggshell; but Hallin had misjudged his mark by a fraction. The stone glanced from the Saint's temple; even so, it was like being kicked by a mule. It shook the Saint more than anything else in the whole of that mad struggle, and sent him toppling sideways with a welter of tangled lights zipping before his eyes. He felt Hallin slip from his grasp, and slithered desperately away to his left. Something went past his cheek, so close that he felt it pass, and hit the ground beyond him with a crunching thud. . . .
He touched another bush, and crawled dizzily round it. On the other side he dragged himself up-first to his knees, then, shakily, to his feet. He could hear Hallin stumbling about in the blackness, searching for him; but he had to rest. Every muscle of his body ached; his head was playing a complete symphony. . . .
Then he heard the bush rustle; and he had not moved.
He strained his eyes into the obscurity. The steady beam of the torch was a dozen yards away; suddenly he saw Hallin silhouetted against it. Hallin must have seen him at the same moment. The Saint ducked instantaneously, and the rock that Hallin hurled at him went over his head. Simon saw that rock also, for the fraction of a second, in the same silhouette: it was the size of a football.
Hallin came after it without a pause. Simon could see him clearly. With a gigantic effort the Saint gathered his strength and met the rush with a long straight left that packed every ounce of power he could muster. Hallin was coming in carelessly now: the blow took him squarely on the mouth and sent him flying.
The Saint stood still. As long as he could keep his position he had a precarious advantage. He saw Hallin's silhouette again, for a moment-but only for a moment. Then nothing. He realized that Hallin had also seen the point. . . .
He began to edge away, with his ears alert for the slightest warning sound. And then he saw another light- the light of a match, moving through the darkness a few points from his torch. At the same time Teal's shout reached him faintly.
Without hesitation Simon plunged towards the electric torch.
Again he guessed exactly what Hallin would do-and he was right. The man had already crept round behind him- that gave the Saint a lead-but, as he ran, Simon heard the other coming up behind. A hand touched his arm; then Hallin cursed, and the Saint heard him fall.
Simon reached the light, switched it out, and swerved away. He heard Hallin running again, but the man went right past him and did not turn back.
'Where are you, Templar?'
He heard Teal's voice, closer at hand; as the Saint blundered after Hallin, his path took him towards the voice; presently he switched on his light again, and Teal himself showed up, red-faced and perspiring.
'Have you seen him?' rapped the Saint.
'No,' said the detective shortly. 'Didn't you kill him?'
Simon answered with the ghost of a laugh.
'Unfortunately I failed. But there's still time. He must have gone between us. Come on!'
He started off again, and Teal had to follow.
As they ran the Saint said: 'This'll take us towards the road, anyway. He's sure to make for that. Where's
