"They're out."
The other replied: "Bolt the door as you come through."
A door slammed to behind them and was bolted. Evan was jolted down many stairs. Someone began to pound violently on the door above. Other doors on the way were opened. Women exclaimed in astonished Italian. "Out of the way! Out of the way!" commanded the resolute voice, and none sought to interfere.
They ran down a long passage and down a few steps to the open street again. Evan was carried across the pavement and flung into an automobile. The door slammed. Running feet were heard from another direction. The resolute voice said:
"Beat it!"
The car jerked into motion. A hoarse voice ordered them to stop. A pistol was fired. The bold voice said:
"Step on her hard!"
The car roared down the street with wide open exhaust, turned a corner on two wheels, and another corner, and soon outdistanced all sounds of pursuit.
The power of movement was coming back to Evan, but he still lay still; he was at too great a disadvantage to put up a struggle. That which enveloped him was a thick cotton comforter; it clove to his tongue, and the stuffy smell of it filled his nostrils. Moreover, he had a lively recollection of the blackjack or whatever it was that had laid him out in the beginning. It was useless to cry out; even if he should be heard above the noise of the engine, who could stop the flying car?
As his wits cleared he set them to work to try to puzzle out the direction in which he was being carried. He could tell from the lurch of the car whether they turned to the right or the left. In the beginning they turned so many corners that all sense of direction was lost, but after a while they struck a car-line and held to it for a long time. He knew they were running in car-tracks by the smoothness of their passage, broken by occasional bumpings as they slipped out of the rails. It was a street with little traffic, for their progress was rapid and uninterrupted.