For a moment neither moved, then French recovered himself. With a step forward he cried, “Stanley Pyke, I arrest you on a charge of——”
He stopped. Had he gone mad? Wasn’t the dead man Stanley Pyke? How could he be charged with murdering himself?
French felt his brain reel. But he grew more and more convinced that the man was indeed Stanley Pyke. Therefore the victim must have been—of course!—Berlyn. How the whole thing had happened French could not form an idea, but he saw that this could be straightened out later. For the moment his course was clear. He must arrest this man.
Though these thoughts flashed through French’s mind at lightning speed, in his extremity of surprise he remained for a moment speechless, his eyes fixed on the other’s face. Then a slight movement of the man’s right arm attracted his attention and he glanced downwards. Pyke had taken an automatic pistol from his coat pocket and was holding it steadily pointed at French’s heart.
“No, Mr. French,” he said, quietly, “I don’t think so. You’ve not got me, but I’ve got you. Put up your hands.”
As he slowly obeyed, French saw that he was in imminent danger of his life. Pyke’s features were set in an expression of ruthless determination and there was murder in his eyes. He went on speaking in quiet, grim tones.
“It’s true that I may not get away with it, but I’m going to have a try. You won’t, anyway. I suppose you have men posted below?”
“I’ve men coming up the stairs after me,” French lied.
“That so? They’re not hurrying. I shall have plenty of time before they get to the top. I’m going to shoot you now, Mr. Joseph French. The upper part of this building is deserted; no one across the way and only a couple of old women on the floor below. The rest are all out at work. I shall be across the roof and down the next stairs before your men are halfway up these. I may carry it off and I may not, but I’ll not be taken alive.”
“And Mrs. Berlyn?”