The man whom Barosa had shot was sitting on the doorstep of the house at the corner, hatless and very white, but I heard one of his comrades say that he was not seriously hurt. Two others had carried Barosa close to the same spot and were bending down, examining his wound and feeling his heart for the pulse. “Dead,” announced one of them with an oath, and as he rose I saw Barosa’s face. The false beard and wig he had been wearing had fallen off in the scuffle; and the right cheek and temple were discoloured with the powder, the blue-black mark showing plainly in contrast to the grey pallor of the face. He had chosen death rather than imprisonment; and after my experiences of one night in that hell, I was not surprised. The police did not recognize him and had no idea that he was a man of any importance. “Does any one know him?” was asked, and some half-dozen of those present pressed forward, looked at him, and shook their heads. I took advantage of the movement to back away, and as I turned I came face to face with Maral. He had not seen Barosa, and I did not mean that he should. Very much to his surprise, I linked my arm in his and drew him away across the mouth of the street to the corner from which I had kept my watch. “Come with me or you are lost,” I said in a low voice. “Who are you?” “You are Sebastian Maral. The police are there. You must fly or you will be taken.” “Who are you?” “A friend if you go, an enemy if you stay. My name does not matter. A secret agent--but you once did me a good turn. I am going to raid the second house over there. I give you a chance to fly; if you stay I must hand you to my comrades.” “But I----” I cut him short. “Say which it shall be. Quick. I can’t give you another moment or I shall be seen with you. Are there any men left in that house? We have taken Barosa.” An oath burst from him and he began to tremble. “There are only two women there. But--” At that instant there was a movement among the little throng across the street. Two or three of the people went running past us and I saw others hurrying in the opposite direction. They were sent by the police probably in search of a conveyance. “My men are coming. Which is it to be. Quick,” I said, and let go my hold of him. He hesitated for no more than a second and then, tossing his hands up in despair, he turned away, walked a few steps, then quickened his pace, and at last ran at full speed. Barosa having been caught as he was leaving the little side street, it was possible that the police might take a fancy to search some of the houses, so I deemed it prudent to hang about until they had gone and the commotion caused by the affair had subsided. Two carriages arrived almost together, one from each direction. Barosa and the wounded man were placed in one and the police drove away. The driver of the other was moving off, grumbling at having been brought there for nothing, when I stepped into the roadway and hailed him.