CHAPTER XIX.
CHECKMATE.
Mr.Rogers's attitude stiffened with mock terror.

So natural was it that I cowered back under the bed.

He closed the valise with a snap as a heel grated on the window-ledge and George Leicester dropped into the room.
"Wh--ew! So _that's_ why you couldn't hear an old friend's signal! Bolting, were you?
No, no, my pretty duck--pay first, if you please!" "Take it then!" Mr.Rogers swung round on him and smote him full on the jaw--a neat blow and beautifully timed.

The man went down like an ox, his head striking the floor with a second thud close beside my hiding-place.
Miss Belcher ran from her curtain, clapping her hands.

But Mr.
Rogers had not finished with his man.
"Shut the window!" he commanded, flinging himself forward and gripping Leicester's hands as they clutched at the carpet.
"Here, youngster--pass the straps yonder and hold on to his legs!" The blow had so rattled Leicester--had come so very near to smiting him senseless--that he scarcely struggled whilst we bound him, trussing him like a fowl with the aid of Miss Belcher's riding-crop which she obligingly handed.