'I'm busy.' 'Open the door--we've a piece of intelligence to gi'e ye.' 'Certainly--but don't be tedious.' (He drew the string, and the bolt shot up).

'Come in, Sir.' The door flew open; several strange faces presented themselves on the threshold, and at the same instant, a stern voice exclaimed-- 'Charles Archer, I arrest you in the king's name.' The last word was lost in the stunning report of a pistol, and the foremost man fell with a groan.

A second pistol already gleamed in Dangerfield's hand, and missed.

With a spring like a tiger he struck the hesitating constable in the throat, laying his scalp open against the door-frame, and stamping on his face as he fell; and clutching the third by the cravat, he struck at his breast with a knife, already in his hand.

But a pistol-shot from Lowe struck his right arm, scorching the cloth; the dagger and the limb dropped, and he staggered back, but recovered his equilibrium, and confronted them with a white skull-like grin, and a low 'ha, ha, ha!' It was all over, and the silver spectacles lay shattered on the floor, like a broken talisman, and a pair of gray, strangely-set, wild eyes glared upon them.
The suddenness of his assault, his disproportioned physical strength and terrific pluck, for a second or two, confounded his adversaries; but he was giddy--his right arm dead by his side.