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The man sank in
a hideous heap without so much as a groan.
Mr. Blood swung to the girl, who leaned panting and sobbing against
a wall. He caught her by the wrist.
"Come!" he said.
But she hung back, resisting him by her weight. "Who are you?" she
demanded wildly.
"Will ye wait to see my credentials?" he snapped. Steps were
clattering towards them from beyond the corner round which she had
fled from that Spanish ruffian. "Come," he urged again. And this
time, reassured perhaps by his clear English speech, she went without
further questions.
They sped down an alley and then up another, by great good fortune
meeting no one, for already they were on the outskirts of the town.
They won out of it, and white-faced, physically sick, Mr. Blood
dragged her almost at a run up the hill towards Colonel Bishop's
house. He told her briefly who and what he was, and thereafter
there was no conversation between them until they reached the big
white house. It was all in darkness, which at least was reassuring.
If the Spaniards had reached it, there would be lights.


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