If
his wife were not mistaken it was easy to explain Malipieri's flat
refusal to let any one enter the bedroom.
"You may be right," he said, rising. "If she is in the palace she is
in the room beyond that one." He pointed to the door. "You must go
in," he said. "Never mind Malipieri. I will manage him."
At that moment the door opened. Malipieri had recovered his senses
enough to attempt a final resistance, and stood there, very pale,
ready for anything.
But the fat Baron knew what he was about, and as he came forward with
his wife he suddenly thrust out his hand at Malipieri's head, and the
latter saw down the barrel of Volterra's revolver.
"You must let my wife pass," cried Volterra coolly, "or I will shoot
you."
Malipieri was as active as a sailor. In an instant he had hurled
himself, bending low, at the Baron's knees, and the fat man fell over
him, while the revolver flew from his hand, half across the room,
fortunately not going off as it fell on its side. While Malipieri was
struggling to get the upper hand, the detective ran forward and helped
Volterra. The two threw themselves upon the younger man, and between
the detective's wiry strength and the Baron's tremendous weight, he
lay panting and powerless on his back for an instant.
The Baroness had possibly assisted at some scenes of violence in the
course of her husband's checkered career.
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