"Drop that knife or I'll shoot!"
I jerked my head up as the Doctor's familiar voice rang with clarity into the sitting room, carrying a strained edge of nervous tension – what was he doing back so early? I had not expected him for another hour.
And evidently neither had the huge ruffian, one Fortner by name, who had managed to surprise me while I napped and decide to take his revenge for what he termed my 'infernal snooping' that had landed his brother in Dartmoor prison; one of my earliest triumphs in this checkered young career of mine.
Fortner now glared with his manic, bitter hatred at my new fellow-lodger, evidently weighing his chances against the edgy, worn soldier. Then he swore loudly and slashed the knife toward my throat as I lay helpless, my hands handcuffed behind me.
There was a loud report and Fortner gave a strangled cry, toppling over to lie motionless on the carpet.
The Doctor stepped into the room, his Army revolver still smoking. He took the handcuff key from the table and unlocked the derbies without a word to me, and I then noticed that his hands were unaccountably shaking, his tanned face pale as a sheet.
Once I was free he knelt beside the dead criminal, checking futilely for a pulse or heart beat.