three sharp-shooters were firing point-blank at the windows from
which Prothero and Pearsall were waging their war to the death upon
the instruments of law and order. Beside them, on his knees in the
snow, a young man with the silver hilt of an officer's sword
showing through the slit in his greatcoat, was giving commands; and
at the other end of the street, a brother officer in evening dress
was directing other sharp-shooters, bending over them like the
coach of a tug-of-war team, pointing with white-gloved fingers. On
the side of the street from which Prothero was firing, huddled in
a doorway, were a group of officials, inspectors of police, fire
chiefs in brass helmets, more officers of the Guards in bear-skins,
and, wrapped in a fur coat, the youthful Horne Secretary. Ford saw
him wave his arm, and at his bidding the cordon of police broke,
and slowly forcing its way through the mass of people came a huge
touring-car, its two blazing eyes sending before it great shafts of
light. The driver of the car wasted no time in taking up his
position. Dashing half-way down the street, he as swiftly backed
the automobile over the gutter and up on the sidewalk, so that the
lights in front fell full on the door of No. 40. Then, covered by
the fire from the roofs, he sprang to the lamps and tilted them
until they threw their shafts into the windows of the third story.
Prothero's hiding-place was now as clearly exposed as though it
were held in the circle of a spot-light, and at the success of the
maneuver the great mob raised an applauding cheer. But the triumph
was brief. In a minute the blazing lamps had been shattered by
bullets, and once more, save for the fierce flashes from rifles and
pistols, Sowell Street lay in darkness.

Ford drew Miss Dale back into the room.