was shot directly afterward.  Exactly how and where will never be known, but the probabilities are that the black fiend sent a bullet into him before he recovered from his surprise at the sudden onslaught.  Then the murderer dashed out of the back door and disappeared.

The neighborhood was already agog with the tragic events of the two preceding days, and the sound of the shots was a signal for wild and instant excitement.  In a few moments a crowd had gathered and people were pouring in by the hundred from every point of the compass.  Jackson and his wife had fled and at first nobody knew what had happened, but the surmise that Charles had recommenced his bloody work was on every tongue and soon some of the bolder found their way to the house in the rear.  There the bleeding forms of the two policemen told the story.

Lally was still breathing, and a priest was sent for to administer the last rites.  Father Fitzgerald responded, and while he was bending over the dying man the outside throng was rushing wildly through the surrounding yards and passageways searching for the murderer.  “Where is he?” “What has become of him?” were the questions on every lip.

Suddenly the answer came in a shot from the room directly overhead.  It was fired through a window facing Saratoga Street, and the bullet struck down a young man named Alfred J. Bloomfield, who was standing in the narrow passage-way between the two houses.  He fell on his knees and a second bullet stretched him dead.

When he fled from the closet Charles took refuge in the upper story of the house.  There are four windows on that floor, two facing toward Saratoga Street and two toward Rampart.  The murderer kicked several breaches in the frail central partition, so he could rush from side to side, and like a trapped beast, prepared to make his last stand.

Nobody had dreamed that he was still in the house, and when Bloomfield was shot there was a headlong stampede.  It was some minutes before the exact situation was understood.  Then rifles and pistols began to speak, and a hail of bullets poured against the blind frontage of the old house.  Every one hunted some coign of vantage, and many climbed to adjacent roofs.  Soon the glass of the four upper windows was shattered by flying lead.  The fusillade sounded like a battle, and the excitement upon the streets was indescribable.

Throughout all this hideous uproar Charles seems to have retained a certain diabolical coolness.  He kept himself mostly out of sight, but now and then he thrust the gleaming barrel of his rifle through one of the shattered window panes and fired at his besiegers.  He worked the weapon with incredible rapidity, discharging from three to five cartridges each time before leaping back to a place of safety.  These replies came from all four windows indiscriminately, and showed that he was keeping a close watch in