"Quite—that is, as right as a feller in my sitivation can be. You won't forget to come——"
Bolter was standing within two or three steps from the top of the staircase; and the greater part of his body was consequently above the trap-door.
He stopped suddenly short in the midst of his injunction to his companion, and staggered in such a way that he nearly lost his footing.
His eye had caught sight of a human countenance peering from behind the half-open door of the room.
"Damnation!" exclaimed the murderer: "I'm sold at last!"—and, rushing up the steps, he fell upon Dick Flairer with the fury of a tiger.
At the same moment four or five officers darted into the room:—but they were too late to prevent another dreadful deed of blood.
Bolter had plunged the knife which he held in his hand, into the heart of Dick Flairer, the burglar.
The blow was given with fatal effect: the unfortunate wretch uttered a horrible cry, and fell at the feet of his assassin, stone dead.
"Villain! what have you done?" ejaculated the serjeant who headed the little detachment of police.
"I've drawn the claret of the rascal that nosed upon me," returned Bolter doggedly.