“I will if you force me,” I hissed.
“You’d better not,” he repeated, smiling; and now I saw that if I did I
should only shoot into the bed or my own legs. His hand was on the top
of mine, bending it down, and the revolver with it. The strength of it
was as the strength of ten of mine; and now both his knees were on the
bed; and suddenly I saw his other hand, doubled into a fist, coming up
slowly over the suit-case.
“Help!” I called feebly.
“Help, forsooth! I begin to believe _you are_ from the Yard,” he
said—and his upper-cut came with the “Yard.” It caught me under the
chin.
It lifted me off my legs. I have a dim recollection of the crash that I
made in falling.