stertorous breathing ejected from his mouth foam tinged with blood.

"Ha!" he screamed in a falsetto of fury, "not yet, little man, not yet!"

With that he raised the pistol, and fired point-blank at the detective.
Furneaux ducked, and seized a small stone, being otherwise quite unarmed.
He threw it with unerring aim, and, as was determined subsequently,
struck the hand holding the weapon. Possibly, almost by a miracle, the
blow caused a faulty pressure, because the action jammed, though the
pistol itself was most accurate and deadly in its properties.

By this time Winter, sweeping Peters aside, was within ten feet of the
maniac, who turned and ran into the shop. The door, a solid one, fitted
with a spring lock, slammed in the Chief Inspector's face, and resisted a
mighty effort to burst it open. A few yards away stood an empty,
two-wheeled cart, uptilted, and Winter demanded the help of a few men who
had gathered on seeing or hearing the hubbub.

"I call on you in the King's name!" he shouted. "We must force that door!
Then stand clear, all of you!"

He raced to the cart, and, when his object was perceived, willing hands
assisted in converting the heavy vehicle into a battering-ram. The
gradient of the hill favored the attack, which was made at an acute
angle, and the first assault smashed the lock. There were a couple of
seconds' delay while the cart was backed out, and the detectives rushed
in, Furneaux leading, because Winter gave his great physical strength to
the shafts. But the Chief Inspector grabbed his tiny friend by the
collar as the latter darted around the counter and into the dispensary
in the rear.