"They'll surely track us by the noise!" screamed Cecil, trying to make himself heard above the horrible din.
"We're too far off by this time," returned Spotts. "Can you manage the horses?"
"Oh, they're all right so long as we've a clear road!" yelled Banborough in reply.
They were now well under way, the traffic ahead of them swerving wildly to right and left at the insistent clamour of the bell. They rushed forward by leaps and bounds, an occasional stretch of asphalt giving them an instant's respite from the dreadful shaking of the cobblestones. They spoke but little, excitement keeping them quiet, but the Englishman suffered keenly in spirit at the thought of what the delicate girl, shut up in that dark stifling prison behind them, must be undergoing.
Suddenly in front of them loomed up the helmeted figure of a policeman, swinging his club and gesticulating wildly.
"Run him down!" howled Spotts; and Cecil, who had caught some of the madness of their wild flight, lashed the horses afresh and hurled the Black Maria straight at the officer of the law.
The constable, still gesticulating, made a hasty leap to one side, and they swept by a huge express-wagon which was coming up the cross-street, nearly grazing the noses of the rearing horses, and catching a glimpse of the driver's startled face.
So they ran on and on, faster and faster as the traffic became less, and the pair of bays settled down in earnest to the race. Suddenly the street narrowed, and a confused mass of carts and horses seemed to block up the farther end. Banborough put on the brake, and with considerable difficulty succeeded in bringing his team to a standstill on the outer edge of the throng.
"It's the Harlem River," cried Spotts, "and the drawbridge is up, curse the luck!"
There was nothing for it but wait, and Cecil, jumping down, patted the horses and examined the harness to make sure that everything was all right.