As he gained it, he saw a dark shape
dart down the hall. With a bound Ferguson started in pursuit, and
the next second grappled with the flying man just as the electric
lights went out and they were plunged in darkness.
Suddenly Kent's voice echoed down the hall. "Come here quick,
Ferguson!"
There was a note of urgency about his appeal, and Ferguson straining
his muscles until the blood pounded in his temples, threw the
struggling man into a tufted arm-chair which stood by the entrance
to the small dining room, and drawing out his handcuffs, slipped
them on securely. "Stay there," Ferguson admonished his prisoner.
"Or there will be worse coming to you," and he thrust the muzzle of
his revolver against the man's heaving chest to illustrate his
meaning; then as Kent called again, he sped down the hall and
brought up breathless at the front door. The light was still
burning in the corridor, though not very brightly, and he saw Kent
hand the grinning messenger boy a shiny quarter. Touching his
battered cap the boy went whistling away.
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