“Is it the man Isaac Lalonde whom you are after?” Sabatini asked.

“That is so, sir,” the inspector admitted.  “A desperate scoundrel he is, too.  He’s shot at and wounded all three of the policemen who entered the house, and he lies crouching before the window, threatening to shoot any one who passes up the street.”

“Who is in charge here?” Sabatini inquired.

“Chief Inspector Raynham,” the man replied, pointing to an officer in plain uniform who was standing a few yards away.

“Take me to him,” Sabatini directed.  “I may be of use in this matter.”

The crowd opened to let them pass through.  They were on the corner of the pavement now, and the street to their right was empty.  There was a disposition on the part of the people to hug the wall and peer only round the corner, for they were within easy range of the grimy window opposite.

“Mr. Inspector,” Sabatini said, “I am Count Sabatini, a nobleman of the country from which that man comes.  I think, perhaps, that if you will allow me to make the effort he will listen to me.  I may be able to save the loss of useful lives.”

The chief inspector saluted.

“I shouldn’t recommend you to go near him, sir,” he declared.  “They say he’s an out-and-out anarchist, the leader of one of the most dangerous gangs in London.  We’ve got the back of the house covered and he can’t escape, but he’s shot three of our men who tried to get at him.  The chief of police is on his way down, and we are waiting for instructions from him.”

Sabatini’s lips parted in the faintest of smiles.  One could well have imagined that he would have devised some prompter means to have secured this man if he had been in command.

“You will not forbid my making the attempt, I trust?” he said, courteously.  “I do so at my own risk, of course.”

The inspector hesitated.  Sabatini, with a sudden swing of his powerful arm, made his way into the front rank.  Arnold clutched at him.

“Don’t go,” he begged.  “It isn’t worth while.  You hear, he has shot three policemen already.  You can’t save him—­you can’t help him.”

Sabatini turned round with an air of gentle superiority.

“My young friend,” he said, “do you not understand that Isaac will not be taken alive?  There is a question I must ask him before he dies.”

The inspector stepped forward—­afterwards he said that it was for the purpose of stopping Sabatini.  He was too late, however.  The crowd thronging the end of the street, and the hundreds of people who peered from the windows, had a moment of wonderful excitement.  One could almost hear the thrill which stirred from their throats.  Across the empty street, straight towards the window behind which the doomed man lay, Sabatini walked, strangest of figures amidst those sordid surroundings, in his evening clothes, thin black overcoat, and glossy silk hat.  Step by step he approached the door.  He was about three yards from the curbstone when the window behind which Isaac was crouching was suddenly smashed, and Isaac leaned out.  The crowd, listening intently, could hear the crash of falling glass upon the pavement.  They had their view of Isaac, too—­a wan, ghostlike figure, with haggard cheeks and staring eyes, eyes which blazed out from between the strands of black hair.