er him, but the darkness
and the crowd interfered with his progress, and by the time he had
reached the door, the man had completely vanished. At the door
stood Murchuk with the ambulance.

"See a man run out here?" demanded the Sergeant.

"You bet! He run like buck deer."

"Why didn't you stop him?" cried the Sergeant.

"Stop him!" replied the astonished Murchuk, "would you stop a mad
crazy bull? No, no, not me."

"Get that man inside to the hospital then. He won't hurt you,"
exclaimed the Sergeant in wrathful contempt. "I'll catch that man
if I have to arrest every Galician in this city!"

It was an unspeakable humiliation to the Sergeant, but with such
vigour did he act, that before the morning dawned, he had every
exit from the city by rail and by trail under surveillance, and
before a week was past, by adopting the very simple policy of
arresting every foreigner who attempted to leave the town, he had
secured his man.

It was a notable arrest. From all the evidence, it seemed that the
prisoner was a most dangerous criminal. The principal source of
evidence, however, was Rosenblatt, whose deposition was taken down
by the Sergeant and the doctor.

The man, it appeared, was known by many names, Koval, Kolowski,
Polkoff and others, but his real name was Michael Kalmar. He was a
determined and desperate Nihilist, was wanted for many crimes by
the Russian police, and had spent some years as a convict in Siberia
where, if justice had its due, he would be at the present time. He
had cast off his wife and children, whom he had shipped to Canada.
Incidentally it came out that it was only Rosenblatt's generosity
that had intervened between them and starvation. Balked in one of
his desperate Nihilist schemes by Rosenblatt, who held a position
of trust under the Russian Government, he had sworn vengeance, and
escaping from Siberia, he had come to Canada to make good his oath.
And but for the timely appearance of the police, he would have
succeeded.

Meantime, Sergeant Cameron was receiving congratulations on all hands
for his cleverness in making the arrest of a man who had escaped the
vigilance of the Russian Police and Secret Service, said to be the
finest in all Europe. In his cell, the man, as good as condemned,
waited his trial, a stranger far from help and kindred, an object of
terror and of horror to many, of compassion to a few. But however men
thought of him, he had sinned against British civilisation, and