"Let them be!" said Dr. Dillon, sharply. "Let them do what they can; it is about the only chance." And still, as he spoke, he kept singling out a foe and firing. The chance, even with his help, was a poor one in that crowd, where there was always another dark hand to snatch at the prize, and pass it nearer to the door--that door which was the key to so much! Yet, the crush through which they fought lessening, those two Englishmen found themselves with the straight alley before them for a race. A race against three men, without arms, but without irons; and with a fair start. While close behind was the crush--the crowd! It was nothing but a race, now, since the revolvers had done their worst, had fired their last shot; a race with the hope--if Vincent could come up with those three--of using a Goorkha _kukri_, which he had thrust into the yellow silk sash he wore instead of a waistcoat beneath his red jacket--thrust it therewith an ugly frown as a last argument for his foes, when he had seen it lying among the pile of miscellaneous weapons Dr. Dillon had foraged from the Smiths' house. It had a dainty ivory handle--Vincent had given it to Mrs. Smith himself, and its last use had been to cut the pages of a fashion paper-- It had a sterner job now. But Vincent was behind; a yard or two--no more. He had fired one more shot before beginning the race, and Eugene's legs were longer. Yet the yard meant all things, and he knew it; so as he ran, his hand sought the knife. "Look out, Smith! look out!" he called. "I'll chuck you my _kukri_; get on and job them; I'll keep the others back--a bit." As he spoke, a glittering curve sped from his hand to the other man's feet. Then he pulled up and faced the crowd behind with his clubbed revolver. The lane was very narrow. Three men could barely breast it shoulder to shoulder. Surely one could bar it by swift blows and slow retreat! For a time, at any rate--time for the opening and shutting of a door! He could but try. "Oh! what is he going to do?" gasped the woman who was watching. "I appose he's going to be brave, mum," said the child, who clutched at her hand, watching, too, with great, wide, uncomprehending eyes. But the man beside them held his breath. So retreating, step by step, Vincent Dering kept the crowd back, lured the crowd on, safe--so far! For these, the first, the swiftest, were naturally the unironed, therefore, the unarmed. But there were others, forcing their way to the front, who would be harder to deal with. Vincent threw his head back and wondered how Eugene was faring; for he dared not turn his face from his task even for a second. Had those three been caught up? Had the _kukri_ helped? It had. And one of those three had fallen before a flash, as of light. And another!