There was another tap at the door, and in came a man, dressed in a black frock-coat and grey trousers, holding a tall silk hat with the thumb and the stumps of the fingers of his right hand. For a second I seemed to feel frozen with fear, for it was the ex-policeman, the man whose fingers I'd cut off on the beach at San Fernando, and as I sprang at him, he drew a revolver from his breast with his left hand, dodged round me, and fired point-blank at Gerald. I heard Gerald catch his breath, and I'd caught the revolver, hurled it away, and got the brute by the neck in a second, José, with a scream, rushing across to help me. He reeled over the foot of Gerald's bed, and whether José choked him, or I broke his back in my rage, I don't know, but he gave a shudder, slipped out of our hands, and flopped down on the floor—dead. Oh! that I had killed him that day at San Fernando!
I turned to Gerald, who was standing where he'd been shot, with his hand over his stomach, Ginger and Bob holding his arms.
'He got me in the stomach, Billums,' he said quietly.
'Don't move a muscle,' I yelled, 'we'll lift you on the bed.'
As we laid him down very carefully, people came rushing up from down below to know what had happened.
'Get a doctor,' I shouted, and I know that I was blubbing like a child.
Dr. Robson of the Hercules came rushing up, and I shall never forget how we three watched his face as he pulled down Gerald's riding breeches, very carefully, to examine the wound.
'When did you have food last?' he said, and when Gerald answered, 'Six hours ago,' he muttered, 'Thank God!'
'What size bullet was it? Show me the revolver.'
Bob brought it. It was a Mauser automatic pistol.