The complete manœuvre was carried through with so faultless a technique that Simon Templar, for all his burden, passed right between the two men who were waiting outside the french window, and the ambush was turned into a cursing pursuit. As soon as that danger was past, Simon paused for a moment to set the girl down again; and then, still keeping hold of her hand, he ran her towards the obscurity of a clump of bushes at the end of the lawn.
They had a flying start, and they reached the shrubbery with a lead of half a dozen yards. Without hesitation the Saint plunged into the jungle, finding by instinct the easiest path between the bushes, doubling and dodging like a wild animal and dragging Patricia after him with no regard for the twigs and branches that ripped their clothes to shreds and grazed blood from the exposed skin. Presently he stopped dead, and she stood close beside him, struggling to control her breathing, while he listened for the sounds of pursuit. They could hear men ploughing clumsily through the shrubbery, calling to-one another, crashing uncertainly about. Then, as the hunters realised that their quarry was running no longer, the noise died down, and was succeeded by a tense and straining hush.
Patricia heard Simon whispering in her ear.
“We’re right by the wall. I’m going to get you over. Go home and don’t say anything to your aunt. If I don’t turn up in an hour, tell Dr. Carn. Get me? Don’t, whatever you do, start raising hell in less than an hour.”
“But aren’t you coming?”
Her lips were right against his ear, so that she could feel his head move negatively, though she could not see it.
“Nope. I haven’t quite had my money’s worth yet. Come along.”
She felt him move her so that she could touch the wall. Then he had stooped and was guiding her foot on to his bent knee. As he raised her other foot to his shoulder, while she steadied herself against the wall, a twig snapped under his heel, and the hunt was up again.
“Quick!” he urged.
He straightened up with her standing on his shoulders.