“May I speak at last?” he said, uneasily shifting his head, so that his glance fell upon the opening of the door. “I own us bested at every turn, Mr. Tuke--and--here’s for you, by God!” The room was lighted only by some candles burning in a sconce within his short reach on the table; and by a sudden adroit movement he had thrown these down. “Here!” he shrieked shrilly, and leapt forward and sideways. A fiery tooth tore itself through Tuke’s shoulder, while an explosion shook the room. In one wild instant all was uproar and confusion, in the midst of which the groom ran to the hearth and kicked the smouldering logs into a blaze. Light leapt up, and revealed a struggling and swaying block of men down by the door, and in the aperture above a dark figure standing irresolute. “Where are the others?” gasped Fern. “Shoot, you fool!” The hoary scoundrel had played his jack to an ace. Seeing the long shadow of his partner creeping forward in the light of the hall, he had assumed him supported by their full force and had struck on the instant. His blow was miscalculated. Brander, it seemed, was alone. The latter stooped forward eagerly, a pistol raised in his hand. His difficulty was to hit the pigeon and not the crow. The flash of indecision cost him dear. Tuke, trailing on his knees, fired full at him, and the fellow doubled and collapsed on the step like a kinked sand-bag. Fern was under Whimple and Sir David. He struggled like a madman. The taut strength of the old villain was amazing. The groom was hurrying to help, when the baronet, spun aside as if he were a child, crashed against him and both tumbled on the floor in a heap. In the same moment the robber tore his remaining adversary beneath him, scrambled up and squatted on the man’s legs, and, his eyes streaked with passion, clubbed his discharged pistol to brain him. With a desperate effort Dennis jerked up his knees, and shot the fellow face downwards upon himself once more. Fern gave a cry like a lashed dog, and rolled off and over on to his back. The servant had simply held his knife upwards and hurled the other to his own immolation. The victor, quite maddened and overwrought, rose to his knees, and crying: “For my father that you murdered!” drove his blade over and over again into the quivering body. Then, suddenly, he cast the weapon from him and himself upon the boards, where he buried his face in his hands and fell crying and sobbing.