While my friend had been giving the latter part of
his evidence, I had observed the man Petrofsky rise from his seat and
walk stealthily across to the door. He turned the handle softly and
pulled, at first gently, and then with more force. But the door was
locked. As he realized this, Petrofsky seized the handle with both
hands and tore at it furiously, shaking it to and fro with the violence
of a madman, and his shaking limbs, his starting eyes, glaring insanely
at the astonished spectators, his ugly face, dead white, running with
sweat and hideous with terror, made a picture that was truly shocking.
Suddenly he let go the handle, and with a horrible cry thrust his hand
under the skirt of his coat and rushed at Thorndyke. But the
superintendent was ready for this. There was a shout and a scuffle, and
then Petrofsky was born down, kicking and biting like a maniac, while
Miller hung on to his right hand and the formidable knife that it
grasped.
[Illustration: SUPERINTENDENT MILLER RISES TO THE OCCASION.]
"I will ask you to hand that knife to the coroner," said Thorndyke, when
Petrofsky had been secured and handcuffed, and the superintendent had
readjusted his collar.
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