screamed, and he chuckled and dragged her back. Then his arm was struck up
by a deft hand, the girl slipped from his hold and darted out through the
doors.

Roaring with rage (now that his blood was up, his heart in the chase)
Dupont turned upon the meddler. This was young Mr. Karslake. Dupont did not
know him except by sight, but that slender, boyish figure and the
semi-apologetic smile on Karslake's lips did not inspire respect. Blindly
and with all his might Dupont swung his right to the other's head, only to
find it wasn't there.

The weight of the unexpended blow carried Dupont off his feet. He fell in a
heap, and Mama Thérèse, charging wildly after Sofia, tripped on his body
and deposited fourteen stone of solid flesh squarely in the small of
Dupont's back with a force that drove the breath out of him in one agonized
blast.

Karslake laughed aloud: it was all as good as a cinema. Then he followed
Sofia.

It was a dark and silent street by night, little used, a mere link between
two main thoroughfares. Sofia, running for dear life, was still far from
the nearest corner. Karslake doubled nimbly across the street to the only
vehicle in sight, an impressive Rolls-Royce town-car. Jumping on the
running-board he pointed out the fleeing shadow to the chauffeur.

"Lay alongside that young woman before she makes the corner, Albert!"

Without delay the car began to move.