“Is he dead?” Miss Hatherton asked, in a horrified whisper.
I bent over the fellow, and recognized him as one of the town watch.
“He is only stunned,” I replied, “but he got a bad fall, and won’t know anything for a couple of hours.”
Meanwhile Captain Rudstone had ventured out of the passage to reconnoiter, and he called to us sharply to join him. We did so, and were relieved to find that the street was dark and empty.
“I feared the man would have companions with him,” said I. “It seems he came round here alone.”
“Yes, luckily for us,” the captain replied. “There will be a pretty row before long; that scoundrel Mackenzie has wasted no time in showing his hand. But I think we are fairly safe, and if the skipper of the Speedwell is open to reason we shall be going down the river under full sail within the hour.”
“I hope so, indeed,” I replied. “You say the man is a friend of yours?”
“He owes me more than one service, Mr. Carew, but enough of speech! Do you and Miss Hatherton follow me closely, and avoid any appearance of alarm or haste.”
We had already crossed the street that lay in the rear of the Silver Lily, and entered one at right angles to it. There was a great deal of noise behind us, and for this reason there was the more danger to be apprehended from the front, since the alarm had roused some of the inhabitants of the quarter from their beds. Here and there men passed us with sharp glances, and curious faces stared down at us from open windows. But none stopped us, so boldly and with such unconcern did we comport ourselves, and after treading a maze of the straggling and dirty little thoroughfares, we came out on Bonaventure Street at a point close to the river.
And now we made a discovery that was very discomforting. Looking up in the direction of the hotel, we could see vaguely-moving figures, and there was a sound of shouting and running that swelled louder on the air.