Then Ancliffe grasped her and pushed her through a vent he had made.  Allie crawled backward and she could see Hough still standing in front.  It seemed that he swayed.  Then as she rose further her view was cut off.  Although she had not looked around, she was aware of a dimly lighted storeroom.  Outside the shots had ceased.  She heard something heavy fall suddenly; then a patter of quick, light footsteps.

Ancliffe essayed to get through the opening feet first.  It was a tight squeeze, or else some one held him back.  There came a crashing of wood; Ancliffe’s body whirled in the aperture and he struggled violently.  Allie heard hissing, sibilant Spanish utterances.  She stood petrified, certain that Durade had attacked Ancliffe.  Suddenly the Englishman crashed through, drawing a supple, twisting, slender man with him.  He held this man by the throat with one hand and by the wrist with the other.  Allie recognized Durade’s Mexican ally.  He gripped a knife and the blade was bloody.

Once inside, where Ancliffe could move, he handled the Mexican with deliberate and remorseless ease.  Allie saw him twist and break the arm which held the knife.  Not that sight, but the eyes of the Mexican made Allie close her own.  When she opened them, at a touch, Ancliffe stood beside her and the Mexican lay quivering.  Ancliffe held the bloody knife; he hid it under his coat.

“Come,” he said.  His voice seemed thin.

“But Hough!  We must—­”

Ancliffe’s strange gesture froze Allie’s lips.  She followed him—­ clung close to him.  There were voices near—­and persons.  All seemed to fall back before the Englishman.  He strode on.  Indeed, his movements appeared unnatural.  They went down a low stairway, out into the dark.  Lights were there to the right, and hurrying forms.  Ancliffe ran with her in the other direction.  Only dim, pale lamps shone through tents.  Down this side street it was quiet and dark.  Allie stumbled, too.  He turned a corner and proceeded rapidly toward bright lights.  The houses loomed big.  Down that way many people passed to and fro.  Allie’s senses recognized a new sound—­a confusion of music, dancing, hilarity, all distinct, near at hand.  She could scarcely keep up with Ancliffe.  He did not speak nor look to right or left.

At the corner of a large house—­a long structure which sent out gleams of light—­Ancliffe opened a door and pulled Allie into a hallway, dark near at hand, but brilliant at the other end.  He drew her along this passage, striding slower now and unsteadily.  He turned into another hall lighted by lamps.  Music and gaiety seemed to sweep stunningly into Allie’s face.  But Allie saw only one person there—­a Negress.  As Ancliffe halted, the Negress rose from her seat.  She was frightened.

“Call Stanton—­quick!” he panted.  He thrust gold at her.  “Tell no one else!”

Then he opened a door, pushed Allie into a handsomely furnished parlor, and, closing the door, staggered to a couch, upon which he fell.  His face wore a singular look, remarkable for its whiteness.  All its weary, careless indifference had vanished.