The quarter where he was, chanced to be a not altogether respectable one, therefore the wild shouts of the pursuing cyclists brought no assistance from the onlookers. Indeed, the people shouted to the fugitive, crying: "Run, young fellow! Run on and they won't get you! Run!" And men and women shouted after him encouragingly. With their cries in his ears, Ansell mended his pace, but his pursuers were fast gaining upon him, and had almost overtaken him when he reached the narrow passage between two high, dark-looking houses, close to the river. He was now near to the river-bank, and within sight of the Pont des Peupliers, which crosses the Seine to Issy. The two police-agents threw aside their cycles and sped after him, but he was too quick for them, and when they had passed through the passage, they saw him dashing along by the edge of the river. In his mad haste he stumbled and fell, and his pursuers were instantly upon him. But ere they could reach him he had jumped again to his feet and, levelling his revolver, fired point-blank at them. The bullet passed them harmlessly, but a group of men on their way to work, attracted by the shot and seeing the thief fleeing from justice, again shouted to him encouragingly, for the police of Paris are not in good odour with the public, as are the police of London. "Keep on, brave boy!" they shouted. "Go it! Don't give up!" And so on. The police-cyclists proved, however, to be good runners. They took no heed of the men's jeers. One of their colleagues had been shot; therefore they intended to arrest his assailant, alive or dead. Indeed, the elder of the two men had drawn his heavy revolver and fired at Ansell in return. "Coward!" cried the men, reproachfully. "You can't catch the man, so you'd shoot him down. Is that the justice we have in France?" On went the hunted thief, and after him the two men, heedless of such criticism, for they were used to it. At last, as they neared the bridge, Ralph Ansell felt himself nearly done. He was out of breath, excited; his face scarlet, his eyes starting out of his head. He was running along the river-bank, and within an ace of arrest, for the two men had now out-run him. They were within a dozen feet of his heels, one of them with a heavy, black revolver in his hand. Should he give up, or should he make still one more dash--liberty or death? He chose the latter, and ere his pursuers were aware of his intention, he halted on the stone edge of the embankment. For a second he paused, and laughing back triumphantly at the agents, who had cornered him, he raised his hands above his head and dived into the swiftly flowing stream. The men who had chased him drew up instantly, and the elder, raising his weapon, fired at the thief's head as it appeared above the water. Three times he fired, and had the satisfaction of seeing the head disappear beneath the surface close to the dark shadow of the bridge.