Moreland had dashed across the room in time to knock up a pistol, which exploded. To add to the confusion, an agitated Italian waiter had switched the light off. Only such light as could penetrate through the windows from the street illuminations reached the room. There was a chaos of struggling men for a while, and ultimately one wriggled free. Revolver in hand he gained the doorway with the detective in close pursuit. Firing wildly, he fled through a small by-street and through the open door of a house which let cheap rooms. At the top of the narrow stairs he paused, and defied the detectives, who by this time were reinforced by many uniformed police, to come nearer. Moreland had taken charge of affairs and, deciding that it was inadvisable to risk lives by a frontal attack, had left the house with a cordon drawn around it, and after a word with Labar’s man had decided to fetch the divisional inspector himself.

Most of this he related hurriedly while they were racing towards the scene of the affray as fast as a taxicab could take them. Labar had no difficulty in surmising with fair accuracy the blanks in the story.