"Mr. Blossom," he said, and snatched the revolver from the pocket of the rubicund gentleman. "Hah! it's loaded in six barrels! Murdered Evelyn—in the back room you say—I'll have the scoundrel's life!"
He snatched the candle from the table, and rushed to the door. The policemen did not recover from their surprise, until they heard his steps on the stairs.
"After him, after him,—there'll be mischief," shouted Blossom, and he rushed after Tarleton, followed by the six policemen. Tarleton's shouts of vengeance resounded through the house, and once more drew the servants, both men and women, to the landing-place at the head of the stairs. That figure attracted every eye—a man attired in a white coat, his face wild, his hair streaming behind him, a loaded pistol in one hand and a light in the other.
"Ketch his coat-tails," shouted Blossom, and, followed by policemen and servant-maids, he rushed up the second stairway.
He found Tarleton in the act of forcing the door on the right, which led into the room where Ninety-One was imprisoned.
"It is locked! Damnation!" shouted Tarleton, roaring like a madman. "Will no one give me the key?"
"I'll tell you what I'll give you," was the remark of Blossom. "I'll give you one under yer ear, if you don't keep quiet,—"
But his threat came too late. Tarleton stepped back and then plunged madly against the door. It yielded with a crash. Then, with Blossom and the crowd at his heels, he rushed into the room, brandishing the pistol, as the light which he held fell upon his convulsed features,—
"Where is the wretch?—show him to me! Where is the murderer of poor Evelyn?"
Blossom involuntarily turned his eyes toward the bed. It was empty. Ninety-One was not there. His gaze traversed the room: a door, looking like the doorway of a closet, stood wide open opposite the bed. It required but a moment to ascertain that the door opened upon a stairway.