It took all his strength, and with the effort his wounded shoulder began to lose blood again. It was some thirty feet, and he accomplished it with only a few seconds to spare.
Shouts and running footsteps came from three directions. Leshkin’s voice could be heard yelling commands; a group of men gathered round the dead soldier. One switched on a torch. For a second De Richleau was tempted to fire into their midst. He lowered his weapon — it would have been madness — there were four of them beside the Kommissar. An angry order, and the torch went out; but there was time for the Duke to see that they were looking at the roof.
A sudden volley of shots in that direction confirmed his idea that they believed their comrade to have been shot from Rex’s old position at the window. There was a whispered consultation, and then Leshkin and his men withdrew.
What a golden opportunity to escape now, thought the Duke, if only it were not for Rex. He sighed. Rex had ceased groaning, and lay quite still. The Duke feared that he was dead. “Rex,” he whispered softly.
“Yes,” to his surprise came the reply.
“Thank God,” breathed De Richleau. “I thought they had finished you. Are you badly hurt?”
“It was a darned near thing,” Rex said, as he sat up slowly. “Another inch either way, and it would have been me for the golden shore.”
“Are you all right? Aren’t you wounded?”
“No, not a scratch. The bullet hit the steel buckle of my belt. Gosh, it was agony — like the kick of a mule, and every ounce of breath knocked out of my body. I’ll bet my tummy’s black and blue.”
“Can you walk — or run if need be? They believe us to be still upstairs.”