Jeanjean's face was changed, his eyes wild and full of evil. In his fierce dash for liberty his collar had been torn from its studs and the sleeve of his smart blue serge jacket torn out. His hair was awry, and from a long scratch on his left cheek blood was freely flowing.
Truly he presented a weird, unkempt appearance, held as he was in the grip of those three strong, burly officers.
"Be careful!" I urged. "He'll get away if you don't exercise every care. He's as slippery as an eel!"
At my words his captors forced him back against the wall, redoubling their grip upon him.
Sommerville and Craig were standing beside Lola, who looked on, nervous and pale-faced. She had been witness to the tragedy out in the hall, and realized what a narrow escape she had had from the vicious old scoundrel's bullet.
Bertini was in the hall, held in a merciless grip by the two constables who had been summoned from their beats, and was standing close to the fallen body of the man who had so long been his acknowledged master.
Jules Jeanjean, though forced against the wall by those four men, was still wildly defiant, his face distorted by anger. He ceased struggling in order to curse and abuse his captors, pouring out upon them torrents of voluble French, a language with which only one of the four men, Rayner, was acquainted, and he but slightly.
"Listen, Jules Jeanjean!" said Sommerville, in a hard, commanding voice. "I am a police officer, and I arrest you on charges of theft and murder."
"Fools!" snarled the prisoner in defiance. "You've made a mistake, a great mistake! Arrest that girl yonder. Make inquiries about her, and you will find lots that will interest you."
"It is sufficient for the present to arrest you, my friend," was the Chief Inspector's response. "One of your comrades is outside, dead, and the other is under arrest."