The detective’s warning was not given without good cause. He knew the faces of men, and in the blazing eyes of this man he read a maniacal fury.
Voles glanced toward the river. It was nearly night. He could swim like an otter. In the sure confusion he might—Then, for the first time, he noticed the police launch. His right hand dropped to his hip.
“Ah, don’t be a fool, Voles!” came the cry from the bridge. “You’re only making matters worse.”
A bitter smile creased the lips of the man who felt the world slipping away beneath him. His hand was thrust forward, not toward the occupants of the bridge, but toward the wharf. Fowle saw him and yelled. A report and the yell merged into a scream of agony. Voles was sure that Fowle had betrayed him, and took vengeance. There was a deadly certainty in his aim.
Steingall, utterly fearless when action was called for, swung himself down by the railings. He was too late. A second report, and Voles crumpled up.
His bold spirit had not yielded nor his hand failed him in the last moment of his need. A bullet was lodged in his brain. He was dead ere the huge body thudded on the deck.
When Carshaw found Winifred in a cabin—to open the door they had to obtain the key from Voles’s pocket—the girl was sobbing pitifully. She heard the revolver shots, and knew not what they betokened. She was so utterly shaken by these last dreadful hours that she could only cling to her lover and cry in a frightened way that went to his heart:
“Oh, take me away, Rex! It was all my fault. Why did I not trust you? Please, take me away!”
He fondled her hair and endeavored to kiss the tears from her eyes.
“Don’t cry, little one!” he whispered. “All your troubles have ended now.”