Quentin hesitated for an instant, and then seeing resistance was useless, boldly set foot upon the curbing. A flash of lightning revealed four or five men in the group. One of them had the driver covered with a pistol, and two of them were ready to seize the passenger. He observed, with amazement, that one of the men was a policeman in full uniform. “Officer!” he exclaimed. “Don't you see what they are doing?” “O, Monsieur,” said the spokesman, pleasantly, “you may tell the police of Brussels that they cannot hunt us down until they hunt themselves down. What's that? A carriage? Quick! Your watch, your ring!” Far down the street could be seen the lamps of an approaching cab, and Quentin's heart took a bound. He had not feared injury, for he was willing to submit to the searching without resistance, but now he thrilled with the excitement of possible conflict. A second flash in the sky revealed altered conditions in the setting of the tragic scene. The driver was on his box and the policeman was climbing up beside him. A short man, masked to the chin, had pushed aside the man with the revolver and a harsh voice cried as the darkness shut out the vivid picture: “Short work of him! The knife!” “The club, Carl! Hell! Into the cab with him!” shouted another voice, and Phil began to strike out with his fists. But the attack was too sharp, the odds too great. Something crashed down upon his head, he felt himself lunge backward into the open cab door, and then a heavy body hurled itself upon his half-prostrate form. Another stinging blow caught him over the ear, and, as he lost consciousness, a tremendous force seemed to be crushing the breath from his body. A revolver cracked, but he did not hear it, nor did he know that friends were at hand. Before the miscreants could hurl his body into the cab a vehicle whirled up, the feeble glare from its lanterns throwing light upon the scene. The man who had fired from the door of the second cab leaped to the ground, followed by a companion, and in a moment they were among the scuffling robbers. Whatever might have been the original intentions of Quentin's assailants, they were not prepared to offer battle. Their aim was to escape, not to fight. A couple of shots were fired, a rush of feet ensued and the earth seemed to swallow all but the two newcomers and the limp figure that lay half inside the cab. In an instant Quentin was drawn from the cab by the taller of the two, the smaller having made a short dash in pursuit of the bandits. Blood rushed from the head of the unconscious man and he was a dead weight in the arms of his rescuer.