The stout German thundered an oath and heaved to his feet, fumbling at his hip and babbling broken profanity.

Dawson swung the image and stepped towards him.

“Keep still,” he cried, “or I’ll brain you!”

“Der hell!” vociferated the German, and fired swiftly at him.  The room filled with smoke, and Dawson, staggering unhurt, but with his face stung with powder, did not see the man fall.  As the German drew the revolver clear, the woman knifed him in the neck, and he collapsed on his face, belching blood upon the boards of the floor.  The woman stood over him, the knife still in her hand, looking at Dawson with a smile.

“My God!” he said as he glanced about him.  The tall man was lying at his feet, huddled hideously on the floor.  The room stank of violence and passion.  “My God!” and he stooped to the body.

The woman touched him on the shoulder.  “Gome,” she said.  “It’s no good.  It was a grand blow, a king’s blow.  ’You cannot help him.”

“But—­but——­” he flustered as he rose.  The emergency was beyond him.  He had only half a strong man’s equipment—­the mere brawn.  “Two men killed.  I must get back to the ship.”

He saw the woman smiling, and caught at his calmness.  There was comprehension in her eyes, and to be understood is so often to be despised.  “You must come too,” he added, on an impulse, and stopped, appalled by the idea.

“To the ship?” she cried and laughed.  “Oh, la la!  But no!  Still, we must go from here.  The police will be here any minute, and if they find you——­” She left it unsaid, and the gap was ominous.

The police!  To mention them was to touch all that was conventional, suburban, and second-class in Dawson.  He itched to be gone.  A picture of Vine Street police court and a curtly aloof magistrate flashed across his mind, and a reminiscence of evening paper headlines, and his mind fermented hysterically.

The woman put back her knife in some secret recess of her clothes, and opened the door cautiously.  “Now!” she said, but paused, and came back.  She went to the picture of the Virgin and turned its face to the wall.  “One should not forget respect,” she observed apologetically.  “These things are remembered.  Now come.”

No sooner were they in the gloomy alley outside than the neighborhood of others was known to them.  There was a sound of many feet ploughing in the mud, and a suppressed voice gave a short order.  The woman stopped and caught Dawson’s arm.

“Hush!” she whispered.  “It is the police.  They have come for the men.  They will be on both sides of us.  Wait and listen.”

Dawson stood rigid, his heart thumping.  The darkness seemed to surge around him with menaces and dangers.  The splashing feet were nearer, coming up on their right, and once some metal gear clinked as its wearer scraped against the wall.  He could smell men, as he remembered afterwards.  The woman beside him retained her hold on his arm, and remained motionless till it seemed that the advancing men must run into them.