Roaring with rage (now that his blood was up, his heart in the chase) Dupont turned upon the meddler. This was young Mr. Karslake. Dupont did not know him except by sight, but that slender, boyish figure and the semi-apologetic smile on Karslake’s lips did not inspire respect. Blindly and with all his might Dupont swung his right to the other’s head, only to find it wasn’t there.
The weight of the unexpended blow carried Dupont off his feet. He fell in a heap, and Mama Thérèse, charging wildly after Sofia, tripped on his body and deposited fourteen stone of solid flesh squarely in the small of Dupont’s back with a force that drove the breath out of him in one agonized blast.
Karslake laughed aloud: it was all as good as a cinema. Then he followed Sofia.
It was a dark and silent street by night, little used, a mere link between two main thoroughfares. Sofia, running for dear life, was still far from the nearest corner. Karslake doubled nimbly across the street to the only vehicle in sight, an impressive Rolls-Royce town-car. Jumping on the running-board he pointed out the fleeing shadow to the chauffeur.
“Lay alongside that young woman before she makes the corner, Albert!”
Without delay the car began to move.
Meanwhile, the Café des Exiles was erupting antic shapes, waiters, customers, Dupont, Thérèse. The quiet hour was made hideous by their yells.
“Stop thief!” “À la voleuse!” “L’arrêtez!” “À la voleuse!” “Stop thief!”
An entirely superfluous bobby weathered the corner, discovered Sofia in flight across the street, came about, and shaped a diagonal course to cut across her bows. She saw him coming and stopped short with a gasp of dismay. Simultaneously the Rolls-Royce slid smoothly in between them and Karslake hopped down. Sofia uttered a small cry, more of surprise than fright, and hung back, trying to free the arm by which he was trying to guide her to the open door.
“It’s our only chance,” he warned her, coolly. “We’re between two fires. Better not delay!”