The Chief laughed quietly.
“Who said there were?” he asked.
“Sold, by thunder!” said the man. Then he yelled: “We'll get 'em yet. Come on, boys, to the main street.”
Like a deer, he doubled down a side street, followed by the crowd, yelling, cursing, swearing deep oaths.
“Let 'em go,” said the Chief. “Maitland's got through by this time.” As he spoke, two shots rang out, followed by the crash of glass, and the headlights of the first car went black.
“Just as well you didn't get through, Chief,” said the voice of the previous speaker. “Might've got hurt, eh?”
“Give it to him, Chief,” said Rupert savagely.
“No use,” said the Chief. “Let him go.”
Meanwhile, Maitland, with little or no opposition, had got his cars through the crowd, which as a matter of fact were unaware of the identity of the party until after they had broken through.
Their way led by a circuitous route through quiet back streets, approaching Police Headquarters from the rear. A ten-minute run brought them to a short side street which led past the Maitland Mills, at the entrance to which they saw under the glare of the arc lights over the gateway a crowd blocking their way.