“I am going to shoot that dog!” cried Defarge, as he bolted like a madman from the room.
“Stop!” shouted Skelding, leaping after him.
Down the stairs went Defarge, taking four and five at a time. Skelding sprang after him with reckless haste, determined to overtake and stop him somehow. It was a wild chase. The deranged fellow reached the foot of the last flight and bounded out of doors. Gene was not far behind. Away they went toward Vanderbilt Hall.
“He’s going to try to shoot Merriwell now!” panted Skelding. “That last drink turned him into a madman.”
It happened that they met no one. Up to Merriwell’s room rushed Defarge, with Skelding gaining on him. But Gene was not able to overtake the maniac.
As Gene came up he saw the door to Merriwell’s room standing open. A light was shining from within. Defarge had just leaped into the room, and Merriwell, who had been writing, had risen quickly from his desk.
Then Skelding saw Defarge thrust the muzzle of the revolver right against Frank Merriwell’s breast and fire. There was a flash, a puff of smoke, and the muffled report of the weapon.
Merriwell had made absolutely no move to save himself, and the madman had fired pointblank at Frank’s heart, the muzzle of the weapon being not more than six inches from the breast of the intended victim.