It was only a shove, a flirt of the wrist, yet so tremendous was his strength that I was hurled backward as from a catapult.

I struck the door of the state-room which had formerly been Mugridge's, splintering and smashing the panels with the impact of my body.

I struggled to my feet, with difficulty dragging myself clear of the wrecked door, unaware of any hurt whatever.

I was conscious only of an overmastering rage.

I think I, too, cried aloud, as I drew the knife at my hip and sprang forward a second time.
But something had happened.