“Why in thunder don't you two scatter, and see if you can't catch him,” cried Dixon to them. “He can't be far off.”
But the words had no sooner left his mouth than up came a great Swede who was one of the workmen in Lloyd's, and he had Nahum Beals in a grasp as imperturbable as fate. The assassin, even with the strength of his fury of fanaticism, was as a reed in the grasp of this Northern giant. The Swede held him easily, walking him before him in a forced march. He had a hand of Nahum's in each of his, and he compelled Nahum's right hand to retain the hold of the discharged pistol. There was something terrible about the Swede as he drew near, a captor as unyielding and pitiless as justice itself. He was even smiling with a smile which showed his gums from ear to ear, but there was no joy in his smile, and no triumph. His blue eyes surveyed them all with the placid content of achievement.
“I have him,” he said. “I heard him shoot, and I heard him run, and I stood still until he ran into my arms. I have him.”
Nahum, in the grasp of this fate, was quivering from head to foot, but not from fear.
“Is he dead?” he shouted, eagerly.
“Hush up, you murderer,” cried Dixon. “We didn't want any such work as this, damn you. Keep fast hold of him, Olfsen.”
“I will keep him fast,” replied the Swede, smiling.
Then there was a swift clatter of wheels, and two doctors drove up, and men came running. The space in front of Lloyd's was black with men. Robert Lloyd was among them. Granville Joy had met him on the street.
“You'd better go down to the factory, quick,” he had said, hoarsely. “There's trouble there; your uncle—”
Robert pushed through the crowd, which made way respectfully for him. He knelt down beside the wounded man. “Is he—” he whispered to Sargent.