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The enemy, whose huddled shape they could make out in the boat, no longer moved. The sculls drifted with the stream. And this absence of all motion had something alarming about it. A ruffian of that stamp might easily lie in wait for his aggressors, sell his life dearly and even shoot them dead before they had a chance of attacking him.

“Surrender!” shouted the commissary.

The sky, at that moment, was dark. The three men lay flat at the bottom of their skiff, for they thought they perceived a threatening gesture.

The boat, carried by its own impetus, was approaching the other.

The commissary growled:

“We won’t let ourselves be sniped. Let’s fire at him. Are you ready?” And he roared, once more, “Surrender... if not...!”

No reply.

The enemy did not budge.

“Surrender!... Hands up!... You refuse?... So much the worse for you... I’m counting... One... Two...”

The policemen did not wait for the word of command. They fired and, at once, bending over their oars, gave the boat so powerful an impulse that it reached the goal in a few strokes.