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"Back room," said one.
Ted was following them as closely as he could without being noticed and
warned away.
He saw a big, fine-looking policeman entering by a back door.
"That's it," said one of the detectives, motioning to a door.
The policeman walked boldly to the door and threw it open.
As he did so a shot rang out, and the policeman staggered back and
fell, a crimson stain covering his face.
He was dead before he struck the floor.
Without a word, the three detectives ran to the door, and within a
moment or two at least fifteen shots were fired within the room.
They were so many and so close together that it sounded like a single
crash. Then there was silence for a few moments, followed by a few
desultory shots which seemed to pop viciously after the crash that had
gone before.
It all happened so suddenly that Ted had hardly time to think, and stood
rooted to the spot until he was aroused by the cry of "Help!" in a
feeble voice, and, drawing his revolver, he sprang into the room.


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