decide to stop and show fight. One or more of them would doubtless
be injured in the impossible effort to run backward while still
going forward.

Blood was streaming down his arm and he was beginning to feel an
excruciating pain. Pedestrians were few, and they made no effort to
obstruct the flight of the fugitive. Instead, they gave him a wide
berth. From far in the rear came hoarse cries, but Quentin was
uttering no shout. He was grinding his teeth because the fellow had
worsted him in the rather vainglorious encounter on the porch, and
was doing all in his power to catch him and make things even. To his
dismay the fellow was gaining on him and he was losing his own
strength. Cursing the frightened men who allowed the thief to pass
on unmolested and then joined in the chase, he raced panting onward.
The flying fugitive suddenly darted into a narrow, dark street,
fifty feet ahead of his pursuer, and the latter felt that he had
lost him completely. There was no sign of him when Quentin turned
into the cross street; he had disappeared as if absorbed by the
earth.

For a few minutes Philip and the mob--quite large, inquisitive and
eager by this time--searched for a trace of the man, but without
avail. The count, de Cartier and the Honorable Mr. Knowlton, with
several of Mrs. Garrison's servants, came puffing up and, to his
amazement and rage, criticised him for allowing the man to escape.
They argued that a concerted attack on the recess amongst the palms
would have overwhelmed the fellow and he would now be in the hands
of the authorities instead of as free as air. Quentin endured the
expostulations of his companions and the fast-enlarging mirth of the
crowd for a few moments in dumb surprise. Then he turned suddenly to