The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

Under cover of the water, he could try every key on the bunch without being observed.

'Hold on, Jill!'

His voice rang in the cave with the old unconquer­able Saintly lilt as clear in it as sunlight, and Essenden turned to bare his teeth again and laugh.

'You'll never get away, Templar! I made sure of that when I anchored the trap. But you can try. . . .'

His hands pawed again at the girl's dress.

'But you, Jill,' he crooned—'Jill! Such a pretty name, Jill! Pretty Jill—do you still hate me? You shouldn't hate me. . . .'

The Saint worked frantically.

The icy water in which he was half immersed did more than cover his movements. The chill of it stung his aching wearied body into new life.

He found a key that fitted, and felt a fresh surge of hope.

Jill Trelawney had not once cried out. She had not spoken. She had not even answered his encouragement. But as the key he tried turned in the lock, and the steel jaws snapped away from his ankle, he heard her choke back a little moan.

The sound made him forget that for half an hour his left ankle had been locked in the crushing grip of Essenden's man trap. He tried to leap at Essenden, and felt stupidly surprised when his leg gave under him and sent him sprawling.

Essenden whipped round in a flash.

'So you've got loose!'

'I have so,' said the Saint.

He had scrambled up onto one knee when Essenden's rush bowled him over again; and once more they were entangled in a mad battle.

If the Saint had ever fought with the frenzy of despair, this was that time. It was his second chance. One chance he had been given, and he had lost out on it. Now he was given the second chance which he had no right to ask; and if he threw that away, he could not expect an­other. This time he had to win.

And he heard Jill Trelawney speak.

'Oh, Simon! Good man!'

He could not spare the breath to answer. The bunch of keys was in his pocket now; and with Essenden out of the way, he could release the girl in a moment. But to dispose of Essenden . . .

The man had the strength of ten, while the Saint's strength had already been cut down by half by the various punishings he had received. The strongest part of the Saint was his fingers, and with these he strove to take up again his first grip. He reached up for Essenden's throat, found it, circled the windpipe, tightened his hold crush­ingly. Essenden's face went red. His eyes dilated enor­ mously, and the air wheezed painfully into his starved lungs; but he fought on like an animal at bay.

Simon dropped his chin on his chest and tried with his arms to ward off or at least break the force of the blows that Essenden rained upon him. But when he was guarding his face, Essenden drove his fist into his stomach. In the ordinary way, he would have made nothing of the blow, but at that moment he was weakened and unprepared for it. He gasped and rolled over, fighting down a flood of nausea that threatened to choke him, keeping his stranglehold grimly.