A pistol shot sounded; Michael had his arms clamped round a struggling form. The sergeant's torch flashed on, and the sergeant came dashing to help.
"The gun! The gun!" Michael cried. The sergeant seized the Monk's pistol arm, and wrenched it round. The gun fell clattering to the ground and the sergeant quickly picked it up.
To and fro the struggling men swayed, and before the sergeant had time to reach them they were down on the floor, Michael uppermost.
The sergeant called: "All right, sir!" and launched his bulk into the fray.
"Got him!" Michael panted, and there was a click as the handcuffs snapped together. "Take him, sergeant, and be careful; he's damned strong."
The sergeant had blown long and loud on his whistle, and they could hear men hurrying down the passage. The Monk, once the handcuffs were on, had ceased to struggle, but stood passive in the sergeant's grip. From first to last he had not uttered a word.
The inspector dashed in, followed by a sturdy constable. "You've got him?" he cried. "Well done, sir! Well done! Hullo, are you hurt?"
"Only a scratch," Michael said. "Flesh wound. Couldn't grab his pistol hand in time. Take him up to the house."
In the library were by this time not only Charles and Flinders, but Celia and Mrs. Bosanquet as well, and the two prisoners from below, who had been escorted up, after the capture of the gang, by a solicitous policeman.
When the Monk came through the open panel Mrs. Bosanquet gave a small shriek of dismay, and not even the sight of the guard about the cowled figure reassured her. She got behind a table, and commanded Charles not to take his gun off the Monk for one moment.