Duchemin was again left free, the thugs standing back to let the pistol
do its work. In that instant a broad sword of light swung round a
nearby corner and smote the group: the twin, glaring eyes of a motor
car flooded with blue-white radiance that tableau of one man at bay in
the middle of the road, in a ring of merciless enemies.

Duchemin's cry for help was uttered only an instant before his pistol
exploded in alien hands. The headlights showed him distinctly the face
of the man who fired, the same face of fat features black with soot
that he had seen by moonlight at Montpellier-le-Vieux.

But the bullet went wild, and the automobile did not stop, but drove
directly at the group and so swiftly that the flash of the shot was
still vivid in Duchemin's vision when the car swept between him and
those others, scattering them like chickens.

Simultaneously the brakes were set, the dark bulk began to slide with
locked wheels to a stop, and a voice cried: "Quickly, monsieur,
quickly!"--the voice of Eve de Montalais.

In two bounds Duchemin overtook the car and before it had come to a
standstill leaped upon the running-board and grasped the side. He had
one glimpse of the set white face of Eve, en profile, as she bent
forward, manipulating the gear-shift. Then the pistol spat again, its
bullet struck him a blow of sickening agony in the side.

Aware that he was dangerously wounded, he put all that he had left of
strength and will into one final effort, throwing his body across the
door. As he fell sprawling into the tonneau consciousness departed like
a light withdrawn.