A SALVO OF CRACKS OF REVOLVERS.
“Hallo! Look!” A second cab (probably informed by ours) was bearing down rapidly with two occupants, one of whom stood excitedly on the steps. “Detectives! We’re spotted!” I leapt to the ground desperately. Heavens! where had my curiosity landed me?
“Put your best leg foremost and follow me,” yelled Burnett, and his revolver flashed in the gas-light.
In my foolish excitement I obeyed him. As we rushed along I heard the men leap out and their boots clink on the iron of the palings. I felt like the quarry of the wild huntsman of German legend. If arrested in such a plight, and in such company, a deluge of disgrace, if not worse, awaited me. I ran like a deer from a leopard, but I felt I could not hold out very long at so break-neck a speed.
“Keep—your—pecker—up,” shouted Burnett brokenly. “Hartmann—is—waiting.”
“To be arrested with us,” was my thought, or was more murder imminent? God! how I cursed my foolhardiness and useless sacrifice!
“Here—we are—at last!” cried my companion, looking back over his shoulder. “One—effort—more.”
Half dizzy with fear and fatigue I made a despairing sprint, when, my foot striking a root, I was hurled violently to the ground. All I remember is seeing two dusky forms rushing up, and Burnett hurriedly wheeling round. Then from some unknown spot broke a salvo of cracks of revolvers. A heavy body fell bleeding across my face, and almost at once consciousness left me.