Yet Dick could not shake off the uncanny feeling which haunted him.
At last the head of the procession came in sight, with the blare of military bands and a crash of cheers from the thousands of spectators lining the streets. But Dick had no eyes for the show. His whole attention was riveted on the building before him.
The Sultan Ahmed Mohassib, of Morocco, in his white burnous with many decorations, passed amid a hurricane of cheers. Glancing along the procession Dick saw the Préfet—a soldierly figure sitting erect in his car. In a few moments he would be abreast of the villa.
Suddenly Dick’s eye was caught by a flash of light. Glancing quickly upward he saw to his amazement that the window of a garret facing him—a room which had already been searched—had suddenly opened. Only the chance reflection of the sun upon the glass had attracted his attention to the swift movement.
As Raoul Gregoire passed, a dark rod, clutched in a hand which rested on the grimy windowsill, projected itself from the window. It wavered for a moment, then steadied itself and pointed downward.
Instantly Dick fired.
The hand disappeared with a jerk, while the rod slid forward and fell over to the ground!
Wild with excitement Dick dashed down into the street. It was utterly impossible to force his way through the cheering crowd and he could only watch Monsieur le Préfet in a fever of anxiety.
It was soon dear that Raoul Gregoire was untouched. Evidently the would-be assassin, if he had indeed dispatched one of the poisoned darts, had missed his aim.
Five minutes later Dick and half a dozen detectives were in the garret of the old villa. But they were too late. The bird had flown, badly hurt to judge by the blood which stained the floor. But on the window-sill lay three little poisoned darts ready for use.