“All right.”
A chain rattled; a key was turned; the door opened an inch or two—and quick as thought the detective shot into the aperture an inflexible munition boot. There followed an oath, a crash; the vicious elastic figure of Mr Lightfoot, alias Jenniver, glimmered one moment in semi-darkness, and the next they were in, and the man was gone.
“The room behind! Quick!” cried Gilead.
They were round and into it on the echo of his cry. As they stumbled forward blindly—for the light had been extinguished—a flash and explosion met them full face, and Gilead tripped and half fell against the wall. But in the very act he remembered his electric torch, and whipped it out and pressed the button. The sudden flash revealed two men down upon the floor, wrestling together in a mortal grip.
“Make for his revolver!” gasped the detective—“quick, before he can get at it.”
Gilead saw where the weapon had fallen, and, snatching at it on the instant, presented it at the young dealer’s head.
“Give in, Lightfoot,” he said, in a voice as cool as judgment. “I allow you two seconds.”
With a ghastly groan, the man rolled over and surrendered.
They got him to his feet and handcuffed. From the moment of his defeat he appeared void of all volition. His face was as grey as streaked putty; the sockets of his eyes were white; drops of sweat stood on his forehead. They relit the gas, and helped him all limp into a chair, where he sat half-collapsed.
“Good God!” whispered Gilead: “has he shot himself?”