“Take the revolver,” I cried.  “Smith, it’s—­”

“No,” he rapped, through clenched teeth.  “A servant of the Crown in the East makes his motto:  `Keep your word, though it break your neck!’ I don’t think we need fear it being used against us.  Fu-Manchu avoids noisy methods.”

So back we ran, over the course by which, earlier, we had come.  It was, roughly, a mile to the first building—­a deserted cottage—­ and another quarter of a mile to any that was occupied.

Our chance of meeting a living soul, other than Fu-Manchu’s dacoits, was practically nil.

At first we ran easily, for it was the second half-mile that would decide our fate.  The professional murderers who pursued us ran like panthers, I knew; and I dare not allow my mind to dwell upon those yellow figures with the curved, gleaming knives.  For a long time neither of us looked back.

On we ran, and on—­silently, doggedly.

Then a hissing breath from Smith warned me what to expect.

Should I, too, look back?  Yes.  It was impossible to resist
the horrid fascination.

I threw a quick glance over my shoulder.

And never while I live shall I forget what I saw. 
Two of the pursuing dacoits had outdistanced their fellow
(or fellows), and were actually within three hundred yards of us.

More like dreadful animals they looked than human beings, running bent forward, with their faces curiously uptilted.  The brilliant moonlight gleamed upon bared teeth, as I could see, even at that distance, even in that quick, agonized glance, and it gleamed upon the crescent-shaped knives.

“As hard as you can go now,” panted Smith.  “We must make an attempt to break into the empty cottage.  Only chance.”

I had never in my younger days been a notable runner; for Smith I cannot speak.  But I am confident that the next half-mile was done in time that would not have disgraced a crack man.  Not once again did either of us look back.  Yard upon yard we raced forward together.  My heart seemed to be bursting.  My leg muscles throbbed with pain.  At last, with the empty cottage in sight, it came to that pass with me when another three yards looks as unattainable as three miles.  Once I stumbled.

“My God!” came from Smith weakly.

But I recovered myself.  Bare feet pattered close upon our heels, and panting breaths told how even Fu-Manchu’s bloodhounds were hard put to it by the killing pace we had made.

“Smith,” I whispered, “look in front.  Someone!”

As through a red mist I had seen a dark shape detach itself from the shadows of the cottage, and merge into them again.  It could only be another dacoit; but Smith, not heeding, or not hearing, my faintly whispered words, crashed open the gate and hurled himself blindly at the door.

It burst open before him with a resounding boom, and he pitched forward into the interior darkness.  Flat upon the floor he lay, for as, with a last effort, I gained the threshold and dragged myself within, I almost fell over his recumbent body.