He would be safe if he could reach the Sanctuary! There
were two blocks to go along the street ahead, then the next lane, and
from that into the intersecting lane, the loose board in the fence that
swung at a touch, the French window--and the Sanctuary. But to
accomplish this he must _gain_ upon his pursuers, not merely hold his
own, but increase the distance between them by at least another fifteen
or twenty yards; he must, in other words, be out of range of vision as
he disappeared through the fence. Well, he should be able to do that! It
was the trained athlete against an ill-conditioned, dissolute mob!
He swerved from the lane into the street. There was grim and hellish
humour in the thought that a _wolf_ should be leading the snarling,
howling pack, blood mad now, at his heels! The Wolf had ceased
firing--obviously because the Wolf's revolver was empty. The others, a
lesser breed, and previously intent on a peaceful orgy at the dance
hall, were evidently not armed.
Jimmie Dale gained five yards, another five, and another ten. He had no
fear of being recognised as Smarlinghue even here, where, poorly
illuminated as the street was, it was like bright sunlight compared with
the darkness of the lane.
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