“Don’t shoot,” whispered Rex hoarsely, as they moved crouching along the gutter under the protection of a low wall. “The flash will show them where we are.”
“I have nothing to shoot with,” said the Duke, bitterly. “I deserve to be shot myself, at my age, for leaving my weapon behind.”
“Good Lord, I forgot.” Rex thrust the other pistol into his hand. “I found it after you’d gone. Look out!”
They had come to the end of the low wall on the front of the house. A series of roofs at different levels lay before them. They were those of the outhouses that had survived the fire.
“What do we do now?” asked Simon in a whisper.
“Back the way we came,” Rex answered promptly. “More cover in the ruin, and they’ll be round here directly.”
Even as he spoke they could hear voices below them; quick jerky questions and answers. A light flashed on to the roof of one of the outhouses. They crept stealthily back to the far end of their cover, Simon leading.
As he rounded the corner he ran full tilt into a crouching form. Luckily the man had no time to use his gun. Simon felt a hand clutch at his throat; they crashed to the roof together.
Simon kicked and struggled; each moment he thought they would roll over the edge and break their necks in the garden, twenty feet below. Suddenly he realized that he was on top. He struck blindly at the man’s face, but the fellow dodged his blows. The grip on his throat tightened, the darkness seemed to grow blacker before his eyes, there was a buzzing in his ears. Through it Rex’s voice came faintly to him. “Stick it, Simon, good boy; give him top place, and I’ll crack his skull!”
With a last effort Simon flopped forward and rolled over; the Russian, thinking he had overcome his adversary, gave a guttural laugh and sprang on his chest — the laugh ended in a moan as Rex smashed his head in with a blow from the butt end of his pistol. The awful grip on Simon’s throat relaxed, and he crawled out from beneath the body.