"Maruffi!" he shouted. "Oh, God!" then he closed his eyes to shut out what followed. But he heard nothing, for he slipped forward, face down, and felt himself falling, falling, into silence and oblivion.
As O'Connell made his way toward St. Phillip Street he nursed a growing resentment at the news Norvin Blake had given him. His feeling toward Caesar Maruffi had all the fierceness of private hatred, calling for revenge, and he considered himself ill-used in that he had not even been permitted to witness the arrest. He knew Maruffi's countrymen would be likely to make a demonstration, and he was grimly desirous of being present when this occurred.
As he neared the heart of the Italian section he saw a blue-coated officer running toward him.
"What's up?" he cried. "Have the dagoes started something?"
"Maruffi was pinched, but he got away," the other answered. "Johnson is hurt, and—"
O'Connell lost the remaining words, for he had broken into a run.
A crowd had gathered in front of a little shop where the wounded policeman had been carried to await the arrival of an ambulance, and even before O'Connell had heard the full story of the escape Acting-Chief O'Neil drove up behind a lathered horse. He leaped from his mud-stained buggy, demanding, hoarsely:
"Where is he—Maruffi?"
Officer Dean, Johnson's companion, met him at the door of the shop.
"He made his break while I was 'phoning you," he answered.