That night a body of officers, headed by Orson Irons and Frank Merriwell, returned to that place.
They found two dead men in that room.
Durant had finished Luptus with a knife, but the icy hands, now cold and rigid in death, were fastened on the throat of the little anarchist.
“It is a suitable end for such a wretch as Emile Durant,” said Orson Irons. “‘The grip of doom’ ended his life, but it will harm no others.”
Several arrests were made that night, Miles Linton being taken.
Kennington Glanworth, however, had disappeared completely, nor did the London police ever place their hands on him. He had concealed himself, and he managed to make his escape from the city in some way.
When Professor Scotch heard the story of Frank’s adventures, he was so furious that he almost tore his hair.
“Went to the East End without my permission, did you?” roared the little man, prancing up and down before Frank, who was quietly seated in a chair. “I knew you had gone somewhere you ought not to when you failed to return at the proper time. Oh, you are a splendid boy to heed the wishes of your guardian! It’s a wonder you were not brought home in a coffin!”
“I am here all right,” said the boy, smilingly. “I should advise you to bind some cracked ice on your head, professor. It may cool you off somewhat.”