There was no stooped, bent figure, no
slouching gait--there was, instead, a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose
face was masked, and who ran with the speed of a greyhound, and whose
automatic, spitting ahead of him as he ran, invited none of the few
pedestrians, or those rushing to their doorways, to block his path.
He swerved again, into a lane again, the lane he had been making for;
and, as he swerved, he flung a sidelong glance down the street. Yes, his
twenty-five yards were fifty now, except for the Wolf, who ran perhaps
ten yards in advance of any of the others. The howls, yells, shouts and
execrations welled into a louder outburst as he dashed into the lane.
Ten from fifty left forty. Forty yards clear! It was a very narrow
margin, even allowing for the blackness of the lane--but it was
enough--it was slightly more than the distance along the intersecting
lane to the rear of the Sanctuary--he would have pushed aside that loose
board before the Wolf turned the corner from one lane into the other!
Forty yards! Perhaps he could make it forty-five! Forty-five would be
_safer_; and--he reeled suddenly, and staggered, and, with a low cry,
his hands reached upward to his temples.
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