The ladies were quite well past the corner before he ventured to tell the men, whom he held back on some trifling pretext, that there was a man among the plants.  The information might have caused a small panic had not his coolness dominated the nerves of the others.

“Call the gendarmes,” whispered de Cartier, panic stricken.  “Call the servants.”

“We don’t want the officers nor the servants,” said Philip, coolly.  “Let the ladies get inside the house and we’ll soon have a look at our fellow guest.”

“But he may be armed,” said the count, nervously.

“Doubtless he is.  Burglars usually are.  I had an experience with an armed burglar once on a time, and I still live.  Perhaps a few palms will be damaged, but we’ll be as considerate as possible.  There is no time to lose, gentlemen.  He may be trying to escape even now.”

Without another word he turned and walked straight toward the palms.  Not another man followed, and he faced the unwelcome guest alone.  Faced is the right word, for the owner of the telltale foot had taken advantage of their momentary absence from that end of the porch to make a hurried and reckless attempt to leave his cramped and dangerous hiding-place.  He was crowding through the outer circle of huge leaves when Quentin swung into view.  The light from the window was full in the face of the stranger, white, scared, dogged.

“Here he is!” cried Quentin, leaping forward.  “Come on, gentlemen!”

With a frantic plunge the trapped stranger crashed through the plants, crying hoarsely in French as he met Quentin in the open: 

“I don’t want to kill you!  Keep off!”

Quentin’s arm shot out and the fellow went tumbling back among the pots and plants.  He was up in an instant.  As the American leaped upon him for the second blow, he drove his hand sharply, despairingly, toward that big breast.  There came the ripping of cloth, the tearing of flesh, and something hot gushed over Phil’s shoulder and arm.  His own blow landed, but not squarely, and, as he stumbled forward, his lithe, vicious antagonist sprang aside, making another wild but ineffectual sweep with the knife he held in his right hand.  Before Quentin could recover, the fellow was dashing straight toward the petrified, speechless men at the end of the porch, where they had been joined by some of the women.

“Out of the way!  Out of the way!” he shrieked, brandishing his knife.  Through the huddled bunch he threw himself, unceremoniously toppling over one of them.  The way was clear, and he was down the steps like a whirlwind.  It was all over in an instant’s time, but before the witnesses to the encounter could catch the second breath, the tall form of Philip Quentin was flying down the steps in close pursuit.  Out into the Avenue Louise they raced, the fugitive with a clear lead.

“Come back, Phil!” cried a woman’s voice, and he knew the tone because of the thrill it sent to his heart.