The noise increased.
The next moment the door was pushed open, and a tall, thick-set man appeared on the threshold.
"You're my prisoner!" he shouted. "I know you from a photograph. Up with your arms, or I'll give you some lead."
Smithers failed to comply with his request, and hastily drew a pistol, which he fired at the detective.
His hand trembled so that the bullet went wide of its mark, and Berghausen, seeing that he meant fight, and that his life was in danger if he did not adopt violent means, returned the fire.
He was cool and collected, and did not miss his mark. Smithers uttered a cry, and pressing his hand to his heart, staggered against the wall, and fell on the carpet, mortally wounded.
"I'm sorry," remarked Berghausen, coolly; "but I had to do it."
Tommy had flown to Smithers' side.
"Are you much hurt?" he asked.
"Done for, my lad," exclaimed Smithers, speaking with difficulty. "My race is run. It will soon be all over, and I can't say I regret it."