So instead of slipping down the iron pipe, he wriggled upward. He clutched the gutter that collected the rain. It held and with a fierce jerk he pulled himself level. A second later he was sprawling on the slope of the roof.
From below came a howl of baffled rage. Golaz and Gamba were cursing both him and themselves. At the same instant Castelli and the doctor burst into the room. Soon came the voice of Doctor Bergius from the window.
“Where is he? Have you seen him?”
“Yes, the roof. He’s on the roof.”
“Oh, you fools, you cursed fools! Why did you let him get away again? What have you got there?”
“The inn-keeper. He tried to interfere.”
“Seems to me he’s lying suspiciously still. Hold on, I’m coming down.”
There was a pause; then again the voice of the doctor. “Gamba, you little devil, the man’s dead!”
“Yes, Master,” said Gamba humbly, “I’m afraid I squeezed a little too hard.”
“Bah! well, too late now. Take the body and throw it into the stream at the back. People will think he was drowned. Where’s the Englishman?”