He flung himself against the fence door, and it gave with a crash.
Pandemonium reigned behind him. In a blur he saw the courtyard, that was
dimly lighted now by the open doors and open windows of the dance hall,
swaying with shapes, and, like ghostly figures, a mob tearing toward him
down the alleyway.
The Wolf's voice, punctuated with a torrent of blasphemy and vile
invective, shrilled out over the tumult:
"Come on! Here he is! Out in the lane!"
"Who is it?" shrilled another voice.
"I don't know!" yelled the Wolf. "Catch him, and we'll damn soon
find out!"
Jimmie Dale was running like a hare now down the lane. The Wolf leading,
still firing, the crowd poured out into the lane in pursuit. Jimmie Dale
zigzagged no longer, there was greater risk in that than in risking the
shots--it was black enough in the lane to risk the shots; but his lead,
barely twenty-five yards, was too short to risk their gaining upon him
through his running from side to side.
His brain, cool in peril, worked swiftly. The Sanctuary! That was the
one chance for his life! He had been no more than a masked figure
huddled against the wall of the room in there. The Wolf had not
recognised him.
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