His right arm, so twisted, so bruised, was powerless—and in that hand, now so deadened and helpless that it seemed detached from his body, was his revolver. He must shoot, though almost powerless in the formidable grip of the bandit. He must shoot if he was to be saved. He managed to pull the trigger.
There was a loud report.
Fandor felt himself flung towards the wall. The vise loosed its grip. There was a terrific din. The window panes were shattered, a heavy piece of furniture was pushed aside, oscillated, fell with a crash; then a sudden silence; but a silence broken by gaspings, loud breathings, hoarse sounds, an agonising death rattle.
The dead pause seemed interminable.... Fandor was about to shoot again, when a voice close to him cried:
"He is escaping!..."
Jérôme Fandor recognised that voice!...
Another voice said:
"We must have a light!"
A wax match flamed and flared.
By its wavering light Fandor could distinguish three men in the room.... Their clothes were torn: there was blood on their faces, they were panting: they stared at one another.