Markel, over middle age and unheathily fat, against Jimmie Dale's six feet of muscle--only Jimmie Dale's left hand, dripping a red stream now, was almost useless.
From above came wild confusion--women's voices in little shrieks; men's voices shouting in excitement; doors opening, running feet.

And then Jimmie Dale had snatched the revolver from the floor where Markel had dropped it in the scuffle, and was pressing it against Markel's forehead--and Markel, terror-stricken, had collapsed in a flabby, pliant heap.
Jimmie Dale, still covering Markel with the weapon, stood up.

The frightened faces of women protruded over the banisters above.

The two men-servants, at best none too enthusiastically on the way down, stopped as though stunned as Jimmie Dale swung the revolver upon them.
Then Jimmie Dale spoke--to Markel--pointing the weapon at Markel again.
"I don't like you, Markel," he said, with cold impudence.

"The only decent thing you'll ever do will be to die--and if those men of yours on the stairs move another step it will be your death warrant.