I was
admiring his discretion when the inspector endeavoured to reopen
negotiations, but was cut short abruptly.
"I am going to count fifty," said Mr. Haldean, "and if you aren't gone
then, I shall shoot."
He began to count deliberately, and the inspector looked round at me in
complete bewilderment. The flight of stairs was a long one, and well
lighted by gas, so that to rush it was an impossibility. Suddenly my
heart gave a bound and I held my breath, for out of an open door behind
our quarry, a figure emerged slowly and noiselessly on to the landing.
It was Thorndyke, shoeless, and in his shirt-sleeves.
Slowly and with cat-like stealthiness, he crept across the landing until
he was within a yard of the unconscious fugitive, and still the nasal
voice droned on, monotonously counting out the allotted seconds.
"Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three--"
There was a lightning-like movement--a shout--a flash--a bang--a shower
of falling plaster, and then the revolver came clattering down the
stairs. The inspector and I rushed up, and in a moment the sharp click
of the handcuffs told Mr. Percy Haldean that the game was really up.
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