These were the arguments in his favour.  Against him were the chances that his companion might show fight; that he might check his prisoner’s exit until his comrade on the box could come to the rescue; or that some officious bystander might act on the side of the law; or that a shot might drop him as he fled; or, finally, and most probably of all, that he might be drowned in the turbulent stream.

Gascoigne was not long in coming to a decision.  “Nothing venture, nothing have,” was his watchword.  At this moment the cab was near the end of the Quai aux Fleurs, near the Pont d’Arcole.  There was no time to be lost; at any moment it might turn down from the river, taking one of the cross streets.  Setting his teeth firmly, and nerving himself for a supreme effort, Gascoigne sprang suddenly upon the police-agent, twisted his hands inside the stiff stock, and, having thus nearly throttled him, felled him with two tremendous blows.

With a groan, the man fell to the bottom of the cab; the next instant Gascoigne had opened the door and dropped into the roadway.

The escape was observed by one or two passers-by; but they were evidently people who owed the police no good-will, for, although they stood still to watch the fugitive, they did not give the alarm.  This came first from the policeman who had been assaulted, who, recovering quickly from the attack, roared lustily to his fellow for help.  The cab stopped, the officials alighted hurriedly, and looking to right and left caught sight of Gascoigne as he stood upon the parapet and made his plunge into the river.  Both rushed to the spot, pistol in hand.

Down below was the figure of their escaped prisoner battling with the rapid stream.  Both fired, almost simultaneously, and one at least must have hit the mark.

Gascoigne’s body turned over and then sank, leaving a small crimson stain upon the water.

Was he killed?  Drowned?  That is what no one could tell; but it was certain that no corpse answering the Englishman’s description was ever recovered from the river; nor, on the other hand, did the police, in spite of an active pursuit, lay hands on their prisoner again alive.

CHAPTER IV.

A SPIDER’S WEB.

Some half a dozen years after the occurrences just recorded there was a great gathering one night at Essendine House, a palatial mansion occupying the whole angle of a great London square.  The reception-rooms upon the first floor, five of them, and all en suite, and gorgeously decorated in white and gold, were brilliantly lighted and thrown open to the best of London society.  Lady Essendine was at home to her friends, and seemingly she had plenty of them, for the place was thronged.

The party was by way of being musical—­that is to say, a famous pianist had been engaged to let off a lot of rockets from his finger-tips, and a buffo singer from the opera roared out his “Figaro la, Figaro qua,” with all the strength of his brazen lungs; while one or two gifted amateurs sang glees in washed-out, apologetical accents, which were nearly lost in the din of the room.