The Trail of Fear by Anthony Armstrong

gaining rapidly on their pursuers, who were still hemmed in among the garden walls. There was, in fact, now a chance that they might get so far ahead that the police would lose them altogether. But just at that moment a man stepped out of one of the doors from the gardens. He was obviously not a detective; apparently he was only one of the many who had been drawn by curiosity to the scene and was looking about to see if he could see anything of what was happening. He certainly saw all that he wanted to. Rezaire, in full flight, ran straight into him, so that he staggered in a dazed fashion in the middle of the alley. Sam, cruder in his methods, hit him with his fist under the ear, the full force of his arm and the impetus of his speed behind the blow. The man gave a gasp and sank to the ground. A moment after, as they sped on, they heard his frantic shouts behind them, dispelling their hopes of shaking off pursuit.
    The alley took a sharp turn to the left. They ran on some distance and then emerged into a street. No one was in sight. Rezaire turned to the right and Sam, laboring heavily, followed him.
    â€œFor God’s sake,” panted Sam, “let’s hide somewhere, or walk. I can’t run any more.”
    Rezaire slowed down for a space. It was essential that they should get out of sight as soon as they could, yet if Sam could not run… He looked swiftly about and a brilliant idea came quickly to him. Just ten yards ahead, drawn up by the curb, was a small car, which was empty. It was standing outside a house with lighted windows, whence issued the sound of a gramophone, and was evidently the property of some young gentleman who was footing it inside.
    â€œHe’ll have to foot it back home as well,” thought Rezaire grimly, as they came up alongside.
    He gave a swift glance round, but there was hardly anyone in the street, though a hundred yards or so away the night life of 9:30 p. M. London was roaring past in the Strand.
    â€œGet in, Sam” he ordered, and Sam, gasping loudly, without sign of surprise or protest, sank wearily into the seat. He was bleeding badly from a wound across the face. Rezaire working hastily but methodically, with one eye behind him on the entrance to the alley, opened the throttle slightly and switched on the spark. He did not know much about cars, but luckily it was of a type that he had once driven—a small two-seated Rover. He went round to the front and rapidly jerked up the starting handle. The car did not start, and Rezaire cursed. The noise was very loud in the silence of the street, but seemed to pass unnoticed. Sam, in the passenger’s seat, sat up and looked anxiously at him. He rapidly jerked the handle twice more without result. Then a curtain in the house was suddenly drawn aside as a man looked out for a moment. A shout came vaguely to them through the closed window, and the face disappeared.
    â€œQuick!” urged Sam. “He’s coming out…
    Rezaire worked furiously at the handle and with a sudden clatter the engine sprang into life. Running round, he scrambled wildly in over the side into the driver’s seat. As he let the clutch in, the door of the house was flung wide, and two young men raced down the steps.
    â€œHi! Let that car alone,” called out one of them angrily, as the car moved slowly forward. A third man came down the steps after them. A cluster of figures was at the open front door and the windows. The car began to accelerate, as the two young men ran out of the gate onto the pavement. At the same moment a shrill whistle from somewhere further behind told that the police had come out of the alley into the street, and were also on their track.
    â€œQuickly! Quickly!” snapped Sam in excitement. “They’re after us.” He looked over the back and drew his revolver.
    â€œBe careful!” flashed Rezaire over his shoulder. “Don’t shoot.”
    â€œI shall if I have to,”