The others seemed to feel the same influence in different ways, for the group began to break up in the manner indicated.  Morton moved toward the window immediately in front of them, where the hidden outlaw had just snuffed the candle; Nolan, a little farther westward to the next window; while Wilson, followed by Macbride with the ladder, went round to the two windows at the back.  Sir Walter Carey himself, followed by his secretary, began to walk round toward the only door, to demand admittance in a more regular fashion.

“He will be armed, of course,” remarked Sir Walter, casually.

“By all accounts,” replied Horne Fisher, “he can do more with a candlestick than most men with a pistol.  But he is pretty sure to have the pistol, too.”

Even as he spoke the question was answered with a tongue of thunder.  Morton had just placed himself in front of the nearest window, his broad shoulders blocking the aperture.  For an instant it was lit from within as with red fire, followed by a thundering throng of echoes.  The square shoulders seemed to alter in shape, and the sturdy figure collapsed among the tall, rank grasses at the foot of the tower.  A puff of smoke floated from the window like a little cloud.  The two men behind rushed to the spot and raised him, but he was dead.

Sir Walter straightened himself and called out something that was lost in another noise of firing; it was possible that the police were already avenging their comrade from the other side.  Fisher had already raced round to the next window, and a new cry of astonishment from him brought his patron to the same spot.  Nolan, the Irish policeman, had also fallen, sprawling all his great length in the grass, and it was red with his blood.  He was still alive when they reached him, but there was death on his face, and he was only able to make a final gesture telling them that all was over; and, with a broken word and a heroic effort, motioning them on to where his other comrades were besieging the back of the tower.  Stunned by these rapid and repeated shocks, the two men could only vaguely obey the gesture, and, finding their way to the other windows at the back, they discovered a scene equally startling, if less final and tragic.  The other two officers were not dead or mortally wounded, but Macbride lay with a broken leg and his ladder on top of him, evidently thrown down from the top window of the tower; while Wilson lay on his face, quite still as if stunned, with his red head among the gray and silver of the sea holly.  In him, however, the impotence was but momentary, for he began to move and rise as the others came round the tower.

“My God! it’s like an explosion!” cried Sir Walter; and indeed it was the only word for this unearthly energy, by which one man had been able to deal death or destruction on three sides of the same small triangle at the same instant.