by W. W. Jacobs
table and poured a little spirit into a glass and tookit in his hand. Then he put it down again and crossed to Burleigh.
"Feeling better, sir?" he asked.
The other nodded faintly.
"You won't want this thing any more," said the sergeant.
He pointed to the pistol which the other still held, and taking it fromhim gently, put it into his pocket.
"You've hurt your wrist, sir," he said, anxiously.
Burleigh raised one hand sharply, and then the other.
"This one, I think," said the sergeant. "I saw it just now."
He took the other's wrists in his hand, and suddenly holding them in thegrip of a vice, whipped out something from his pocket--something hard andcold, which snapped suddenly on Burleigh's wrists, and held them fast.
"That's right," said the sergeant; "keep quiet."
The constable turned round in amaze; Burleigh sprang toward himfuriously.
"Take these things off!" he choked. "Have you gone mad? Take themoff!"
"All in good time," said the sergeant.
"Take them off!" cried Burleigh again.
For answer the sergeant took him in a powerful grip, and staring steadilyat his white face and gleaming eyes, forced him to the other end of theroom and pushed him into a chair.
"Collins," he said, sharply.
"Sir?" said the astonished subordinate.
"Run to the doctor at the corner hard as you can run!" said the other."This man is not dead!"
As the man left the room the sergeant took up the glass of spirits he hadpoured out, and kneeling down by Fletcher again, raised his head andtried to pour a little down his throat. Burleigh, sitting in his corner,watched like one in a trance. He saw the constable return with thebreathless surgeon, saw the three men bending over Fletcher, and then sawthe eyes of the dying man open and the lips of the dying man move. Hewas conscious that the sergeant made some notes in a pocket-book, andthat all three men eyed him closely. The sergeant stepped toward him andplaced his hand on his shoulder, and obedient to the touch, he arose andwent with him out into the night.