The air hung heavy and damp over the district, the kind of gloom that hides a multitude of sins. In a dwelling on Kosmonavtov Street, the silence was shattered by a scream—a piercing, wretched cry for mercy that froze the blood of every soul nearby.

One good fellow, accompanied by his wife, heard the frantic pleas of a neighbour. They found the poor woman trembling like a leaf in a gale, her face a mask of pure terror. She recounted a tale of woe: her former lover, a man consumed by a dark passion, had stormed her sanctuary. He had seized her by the hair, dragging her with brutal force, and snatched away her telephone—that devilish device—to ensure no summons could reach the police constables.

"We calmed the poor creature and brought her into our own home," the witness recounted. "Then, we ventured into the scene of the crime. 'Twas a shambles! The furniture overturned, possessions scattered like autumn leaves in a storm; the room looked as though a whirlwind had torn through it."

As the neighbours stepped back into the street, they collided with a man of Southern features, who bolted like a frightened cur. A brave companion of our witness gave chase, overtaking the rogue and pinning him fast. The scoundrel, in a fit of madness, thrust his hand deep into his bag, bellowing threats that he would shoot the man dead on the spot!

But the luck of the villain had run dry. Before the trigger could be pulled, the police arrived—the heavy tread of the law bringing an end to the chaos. The rogue's 'luck' had vanished, and he found himself firmly in the grip of the authorities.

Such is the way of the world. Not long ago, a similar sort of blackguard in the distant city of Novosibirsk spent his days stalking two innocent maidens, only to be hauled off to the dungeons by the law, proving once more that the long arm of the police eventually finds every knave.