The bullet passed them harmlessly, but a group of men on their way to work, attracted by the shot and seeing the thief fleeing from justice, again shouted to him encouragingly, for the police of Paris are not in good odour with the public, as are the police of London.
“Keep on, brave boy!” they shouted. “Go it! Don’t give up!” And so on.
The police-cyclists proved, however, to be good runners. They took no heed of the men’s jeers. One of their colleagues had been shot; therefore they intended to arrest his assailant, alive or dead.
Indeed, the elder of the two men had drawn his heavy revolver and fired at Ansell in return.
“Coward!” cried the men, reproachfully. “You can’t catch the man, so you’d shoot him down. Is that the justice we have in France?”
On went the hunted thief, and after him the two men, heedless of such criticism, for they were used to it.
At last, as they neared the bridge, Ralph Ansell felt himself nearly done. He was out of breath, excited; his face scarlet, his eyes starting out of his head.
He was running along the river-bank, and within an ace of arrest, for the two men had now out-run him.
They were within a dozen feet of his heels, one of them with a heavy, black revolver in his hand.
Should he give up, or should he make still one more dash—liberty or death?