"He's got them! Stop him! stop him!"
There was a fusillade, the man dropped; but the keys were in another hand--another--another--passing outwards from the crush--outwards towards that low door at the end of the narrow alley.
Without a word, Vincent, revolver in hand, let himself drop on the heads below.
"Oh, don't, Vincent, don't!" came a woman's voice; and at the sound, another man gave that swift look up once more, and followed suit.
"Let them be!" said Dr. Dillon, sharply. "Let them do what they can; it is about the only chance." And still, as he spoke, he kept singling out a foe and firing.
The chance, even with his help, was a poor one in that crowd, where there was always another dark hand to snatch at the prize, and pass it nearer to the door--that door which was the key to so much!
Yet, the crush through which they fought lessening, those two Englishmen found themselves with the straight alley before them for a race. A race against three men, without arms, but without irons; and with a fair start. While close behind was the crush--the crowd!
It was nothing but a race, now, since the revolvers had done their worst, had fired their last shot; a race with the hope--if Vincent could come up with those three--of using a Goorkha kukri, which he had thrust into the yellow silk sash he wore instead of a waistcoat beneath his red jacket--thrust it therewith an ugly frown as a last argument for his foes, when he had seen it lying among the pile of miscellaneous weapons Dr. Dillon had foraged from the Smiths' house. It had a dainty ivory handle--Vincent had given it to Mrs. Smith himself, and its last use had been to cut the pages of a fashion paper--
It had a sterner job now.
But Vincent was behind; a yard or two--no more. He had fired one more shot before beginning the race, and Eugene's legs were longer. Yet the yard meant all things, and he knew it; so as he ran, his hand sought the knife.