“Come out this way—quick!” urged Luck, starting for the rear door, which opened on to a rocky slope, leading on a steep grade up the side of Ruby Hill. The Saint stumbled out of the door, with Duke close behind him, and they went up the hill, winding their way around the tall spires, dodging from shadow to shadow to escape the moonlight, which lighted the world like a mighty blue-tinted, incandescent lamp.
Behind them came the voices of the mob, the crashing of the front door of the cabin, hollow, muffled voices, as those inside shouted the information that their quarry had escaped from the rear.
“The tunnels!” panted Luck. “The hill is full of them.”
They stopped for a breathing spell and watched the crowd below them climbing the hill, their voices plainly audible in the thin atmosphere.
“They’re headin’ for the tunnels!” shouted Silver Sleed’s voice. “We’ll get ’em now!”
Duke turned and followed Luck, climbing higher and higher over the barren rocks, while below them came the redoubled shouts of the crowd, as they saw the flitting figures far up on the cliffs.
“The Saint!” exclaimed Duke suddenly. “Where is he?”
Luck, panting against a rock, looked back. She and Duke were alone. Breathlessly they scanned the world below them, and watched the crowd coming; black figures in that ghostly light.
All danger to themselves was forgotten. What had become of the Saint?