He heard me and turned.
“I arrest you, Dr. Barosa,” I cried, and started as if to run after him.
Taking me for a police agent, he paused a second, drew out his revolver, and then, thinking probably he could both save himself by flight and prevent the others in the house being discovered, he turned round and bolted.
But in avoiding me, he ran right into the arms of the police who reached the corner of the street at the same minute. There was a short sharp scuffle, a cry or two of astonishment, a gruff call to surrender, a pause, and then a shot.
One of the police fell, and I saw Barosa break away, reach the middle of the road, and raise his hand to his head. A flash and a report followed, he lurched heavily and then dropped, as a drunken man drops, nervelessly and all in a heap.
Everything had occurred with such dramatic swiftness that I could scarcely realize it. In a few seconds a number of people came hurrying up, attracted by the noise of the shots, and as they crowded round the police, I joined them and edged through to the front.
The man whom Barosa had shot was sitting on the doorstep of the house at the corner, hatless and very white, but I heard one of his comrades say that he was not seriously hurt.
Two others had carried Barosa close to the same spot and were bending down, examining his wound and feeling his heart for the pulse.
“Dead,” announced one of them with an oath, and as he rose I saw Barosa’s face. The false beard and wig he had been wearing had fallen off in the scuffle; and the right cheek and temple were discoloured with the powder, the blue-black mark showing plainly in contrast to the grey pallor of the face.
He had chosen death rather than imprisonment; and after my experiences of one night in that hell, I was not surprised.