Lorin French, from a loophole in an iron shutter, watched the firing, and the dispersion of the mob outside, and in a few minutes he was informed by a Pinkerton sergeant that the contest was over.
“It’s a sorry day’s work, sir,” said the officer; “we have lost over thirty of our best men, and there must be two hundred rioters dead and wounded on the stairs and in the halls, beside those killed in the street.”
“I will help you with the wounded,” said French, starting for the passage.
“Better remain here, sir,” said the officer. “It may not be quite safe for you yet in the lower halls.”
“Nonsense,” replied French, “the fight is over,” and so saying, he walked out into the hall, and descended the stairs to the fourth story. He paused in horror at the sight which met his eyes. The floor was wet and slippery with blood, and the cries of the wounded pierced his ears. He stood for a moment as if dazed, and then, turning his back upon the scene, prepared to ascend the staircase and gain his room.
And as he turned, a man who was sitting propped up against the wall twenty feet away, raised a revolver which had been lying in his lap, and, clearing with his left hand the blood which obscured his eyes, took rapid yet careful aim and fired.
The bullet struck Lorin French in his backbone, which it shattered, and, with a cry of agony and fear, the owner of $20,000,000 fell forward upon his face on the stairway.
CHAPTER XV.
“Is this law? Aye, marry is it?”
“In the matter of the estate of Lorin French deceased, the application of Louis Browning for letters executory is before the court. Who represents the applicant?”
“The firm of Bruff & Baldwin, your honor,” replied a tall gentleman with spectacled nose and a beardless face.