But the Clockwork man suddenly seemed panic-stricken. Just for one moment he surveyed the prostrate figures lying about on the grass like so many sacks. Then he sent the bat flying in the direction of the pavilion and rushed straight for the barrier of hurdles.
The spectators fled with one accord. Allingham and Gregg doubled up in hot pursuit. Arthur Withers, who had mustered the wit to fall down rather than to be knocked down, picked himself up quickly and joined them.
"It's alright," he gasped, "He—he—won't be able to climb the hurdles."
But there was no accounting for the activities of the Clockwork man. At a distance of about a yard from the barrier his whole body took off from the ground, and he literally floated in space over the obstacle. It was not jumping; it was more like flying. He landed lightly upon his feet, without the least difficulty; and, before the onlookers could recover from their amazement, this extraordinary personage had shot like a catapult, straight up the path along which he had travelled so precariously half an hour before. In a few seconds his diminutive figure passed into the horizon, leaving a faint trail of dust and the dying echo of that appalling noise.
"My God," exclaimed Gregg, grasping a hurdle to steady himself, "It's it's—incredible."
Allingham couldn't say a word. He stood there panting and swallowing quickly. Arthur Withers caught up to them.
"He—he—goes by machinery, sir. He's a clockwork man."
"Don't be a damned fool," the doctor burst out, "you're talking through your hat."