He had opened a large parasol and held it before him like a shield behind which he hid his face. On his boat Marescal disappeared beneath a very large straw hat. When Bregeac was three yards from the bench, he shut his parasol, sprang forward, without bothering about the people strolling along the path, snatched the bottle, and took to flight along a lane in the direction of the fortifications. He did this with uncommon skill and admirable swiftness. Taken aback, Jodot hesitated, cried out, caught up the sack, set it down again as if he was afraid of not being able to run quickly enough with such a burden, lost time and went out of action. But Marescal, foreseeing the attack, had landed, and at once dashed in pursuit. Ralph did the same. There were only three competitors left. Bregeac, like a good runner, gave his mind to nothing but his running and did not turn round. Marescal gave his mind only to Bregeac, and he did not turn round either, so that Ralph was able to pursue them quite openly. Why not? In ten minutes the first of the three runners reached the Ternes Gate. Bregeac was so hot that he took off his jacket. Near the Custom House a street car had stopped and a number of travelers were waiting at the ticket office to get aboard it and return to Paris. Bregeac mingled with this crowd. Marescal did the same. The conductor called out the numbers of the tickets. But the jostling was so violent that Marescal had scarcely any difficulty in pulling the bottle out of Bregeac’s pocket without Bregeac’s being any the wiser. At once Marescal slipped through the Custom House and set off at full speed. “My good friends eliminate themselves one after the other,” chuckled Ralph. “And each of them is working for me.” When, in his turn, Ralph went through the Custom House, he saw Bregeac making desperate efforts to get out of the car through the crowd which blockaded his way, in order to pursue the man who had robbed him. Marescal plunged into the streets which run parallel to the Avenue des Ternes. They are narrow and winding. He ran like a madman. When he came to a stop at the Avenue Wagram, he was out of breath. His face was shining with sweat, his eyes were bloodshot, his veins were swollen. He mopped his face and forehead, utterly done. He bought a newspaper and, after having taken a look at it, wrapped the bottle up in it. Then he stuck it under his arm and went tottering on like a man who only keeps upright by a miracle. In fact, the handsome Marescal could not hold himself upright. His collar was as limp and crumpled as if it had been dipped in water; his beard ended in two points from which dripped drops of sweat.