"Bring me that lantern," commanded the Sergeant.

"My God!" cried Jacob, "it is Rosenblatt!"

"Rosenblatt? Who is he?"

"De man dat live here, dis house. He run store. Lots mon'.
My God! He dead!"

"Looks like it," said the Sergeant, opening his coat. "He's got a
bad hole in him here," he continued, pointing to a wound in the
chest. "Looks deep, and he is bleeding, too."

There was a knocking at the door.

"Let him in," cried the Sergeant, "it is the doctor. Hello, Doctor!
Here is something for you all right."

The doctor, a tall, athletic young fellow with a keen, intellectual
face, pushed his way through the crowd to the corner and dropped on
his knees beside the Polak.

"Why, the man is dead!" said the doctor, putting his hand over the
Polak's heart.

Even as he spoke, a shudder passed through the man's frame, and he
lay still. The doctor examined the hole in his neck.

"Yes, he's dead, sure enough. The jugular vein is severed."