There was no one to gainsay the strong position thus assumed by Poke-Berry Blossom, Esq.
"And then I kin have a little private chat with him, in regard to the $71,000,—I guess I can," he muttered to himself.
"What's the occasion of this confusion?" said a bland voice; and, clad in his elegant white coat, with his cloak drooping from his right shoulder, Colonel Tarleton advanced from the doorway to the light. "Passing by I saw Mr. Somers' door open, and hear an uproar,—what is the matter, gentlemen? My old friend, Mr. Somers, is not ill, I hope?"
"Evelyn, his son, has been shot," bluntly responded Blossom—"by an old convict, who had hid himself in the third story, with the idea o' attackin' old Somers' cash-box and jugular."
Colonel Tarleton, evidently shocked, raised his hand to his forehead and staggered to a chair.
"Evelyn shot!" he gasped, after a long pause.—"Surely you dream. The particulars, the particulars—"
Blossom recapitulated the particulars of the case, according to the best of his knowledge.
"It is too horrible, too horrible," cried Tarleton, and his extreme agitation was perceptible to the policemen. "My young friend Evelyn murdered! Ah!—" he started from the chair, and fell back again with his head in his hands.
"But we've got the old rag'muffin," cried Blossom, "safe and tight; third story, back room."
Tarleton started from the chair and approached Blossom,—his pale face stamped with hatred and revenge.