Quentin's arm shot out and the fellow went tumbling back among the
pots and plants. He was up in an instant. As the American leaped
upon him for the second blow, he drove his hand sharply,
despairingly, toward that big breast. There came the ripping of
cloth, the tearing of flesh, and something hot gushed over Phil's
shoulder and arm. His own blow landed, but not squarely, and, as he
stumbled forward, his lithe, vicious antagonist sprang aside, making
another wild but ineffectual sweep with the knife he held in his
right hand. Before Quentin could recover, the fellow was dashing
straight toward the petrified, speechless men at the end of the
porch, where they had been joined by some of the women.

"Out of the way! Out of the way!" he shrieked, brandishing his
knife. Through the huddled bunch he threw himself, unceremoniously
toppling over one of them. The way was clear, and he was down the
steps like a whirlwind. It was all over in an instant's time, but
before the witnesses to the encounter could catch the second breath,
the tall form of Philip Quentin was flying down the steps in close
pursuit. Out into the Avenue Louise they raced, the fugitive with a
clear lead.

"Come back, Phil!" cried a woman's voice, and he knew the tone
because of the thrill it sent to his heart.

He heard others running behind him, and concluded that his fellow
guests had regained their wits and were in the chase with him. If
the pursued heard the sudden, convulsive laugh of the man behind him
he must have wondered greatly. Phil could not restrain the wild
desire to laugh when he pictured the sudden and precipitous halt his
valiant followers would be compelled to make if the fugitive should