Standing above the balustrade, Marcel took aim at one of the three men who were strangling his uncle. A flash followed, and the man fell. At the same moment a shot was heard behind Marcel, and a ball whizzed past his ear. Turning round, he found himself face to face with Agostini, who was preparing to repeat the shot. With a sudden blow he dashed aside the weapon, seized the Italian by the waist, and, his strength doubled by the fury and rage which now possessed him, raised him in the air, and flung him over the rails of the staircase. At this exploit, Hans, powerless to strike Marcel, who was descending the steps four at a time, gave a howl of fury. He shook Baudoin with such energy that he forced him to abandon his hold. Then he placed him under his knee, and his iron arm was already raised to deal the deathblow, when Marcel rushed to the rescue with a terrible blow in the body, which hurled the colossus to the ground. He immediately rose to his feet, however, and, taking up a position in a corner, shouted out aloud— “Help! Here, you others! Help!” But the others had by this time too much to do. The police, attracted by the firing, invaded the house. Uncle Graff, at liberty, now came up with his revolver. But Baudoin, in hoarse tones, exclaimed— “Monsieur Graff, leave him to me—he is mine! It is he who killed my General!” He then took from the old man’s hand his steel-headed stick, disdaining a firearm, which would have made the combat unequal, and fell upon Hans. The bandit swore frightfully on seeing that all was lost; he struck a blow with his iron fist, but Baudoin lightly stepped aside. Then the stick whizzed through the air, and the steel head descended. Hans, struck on the temple, rolled over the flag-stones, and fell like an ox to the ground. This was a signal for a general rout. The three men who still resisted now leapt through the open windows, and vanished like shadows into the garden. “All escape is cut off; do not trouble about them,” exclaimed the head detective. “Let us see after the wounded and the dead.” Uncle Graff wished to take Marcel into his arms, question him, and assure himself that he was safe and sound; but, on turning round, he found Baudoin wiping away with his handkerchief the blood and perspiration flowing from his forehead. Marcel, as soon as the issue of the struggle left no room for doubt, had immediately thought of Sophia. Now that danger for him had disappeared, it loomed forth with a terrible aspect for her. The police, who had restored the situation by intervening to save him, would now appear on the scene for her ruin. He mounted the stairs more quickly than he had descended, for he felt that the time in which anything could be done was short indeed.