As they wrenched the gypsy's grappling arms away, Wrotham fell back on the floor, stone dead.
Life had been thrust out of him with the first blow dealt him by Tom's claspknife, which had been aimed at his throat as a butcher aims at the throat of a swine.

His bleeding corpse presented a frightful spectacle, the head being nearly severed from the body.
Brookfield, shaking all over, turned his back upon the awful sight, and kept on running to and fro and up and down the street, clamouring like a madman for the police.

Two sturdy constables presently came, their appearance restoring something like order.

To them Tom o' the Gleam advanced, extending his blood-stained hands.
"I am ready!" he said, in a quiet voice.

"I am the murderer!" They looked at him.