The Saint Meets His Match (She was a Lady)

It so happened that the stone floor jutted up imme­diately under his arm.

It caught him in the elbow, in such a way that a twinge of numbing agony shot up his arm like an electric shock. The fingers of his right hand relaxed, and with a snarl of exultation, Essenden tore both his hands away and breathed again.

Hardly knowing what he did, the Saint wrenched one arm free and lashed out blindly.

He felt the punch jar a thinly covered bone, and Essenden sagged sideways, suddenly limp.

Simon dragged himself to his feet and limped over towards Jill, fumbling in his pocket.

The stream beside the wall had been four feet wide when he had first seen it. Now it was twice that width, and there was a turbulent flurry in its dark waters.

Essenden must have mistaken the time of the tide. And it rose with an appalling speed. While the Saint fought with the lock that held Jill's chains, he felt the cold water creeping up his legs; and when the chains fell away it was up to his knees. The stream was now a racing river as many yards wide as it had once been feet, and one edge of it was still spreading over the floor of the cave.

And Essenden was getting up again.

'Look out!' cried the girl.

Simon turned; and as he did so his bare foot fell on a familiar hardness.

Even so, it was a miscalculation on his part to try to pick up the gun.

He got it into his hand; but Essenden kicked his wrist, and the automatic fell into the stream again. Essen­den plunged frantically; and the Saint, with only one sound leg to stand on, was sent staggering back against the wall. And by some miracle Essenden's hand found the gun without a second's groping.

With the face of a fiend, Essenden took deliberate aim. And the Saint, flattened against the wall, looked death in the eyes.

The second chance—thrown away.

Of course, he ought to have settled Essenden thorough­ly, when he had the advantage, instead of relying on a lasting effect from the lucky blow he had landed on the man's jaw.

The strengthening current an inch above the Saint's knees now, seemed to be trying to pluck his feet from under him and whirl him away. That underground tide must grow in a few more minutes into something with the power and ferocity of a maelstrom. And the Saint would be shot, and the tide would carry him away with it into the unfathomed depths from which it rose. With­out a trace. . . . And that would be the end. . . .

With a queer feeling of carelessness, Simon Templar gathered his muscles for the shock of the bullet.

Then he saw Jill Trelawney moving.

She was struggling towards Essenden; and in another step her movement would bring her into the line of fire.

With a cry, the Saint hurled himself forward.

He fell. It was impossible to hurl oneself effectively through that swelling torrent. As he went down, he heard the report of Essenden's shot go booming and reechoing through the cave.

Then his hand closed upon an ankle.

He jerked, with all his force; and as he fought up . through the flood he saw Essenden spinning into the water.

One hand especially he