The police would be pouring out of the house from the back door
in a minute--the only chance was a dash for it. His mind was groping
now, bewildered. What did it mean? The police who had obviously been
detailed to the lane at the rear of the Mole's were fighting now--with
whom--why? But the fight was working further on down the lane in the
opposite direction from that shed door. "Quick!" he said again. "The
shed door--on the other side--quick!"
Together they darted into the lane. From behind, the back door of the
Mole's house was flung open, and there came the rush of feet. From down
the lane the short, vicious tongue-flames of revolvers stabbed through
the black. But in the darkness, save for those quick, myriad flashes
like gigantic fireflies winking in the night, he could see nothing. They
were racing, racing like mad, he and this form beside him for whose
safety he prayed so wildly, so passionately in his soul now. It was only
a step further--just another one--and the police, coming out of the
Mole's, had not reached the gate yet. Just another step--and then a
bullet, straying from the fight down there along the lane, drummed past
his ear in an angry buzz--and the form beside him lurched heavily,
stumbled, and pitched forward.
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