“Short work of him!  The knife!” “The club, Carl!  Hell!  Into the cab with him!” shouted another voice, and Phil began to strike out with his fists.  But the attack was too sharp, the odds too great.  Something crashed down upon his head, he felt himself lunge backward into the open cab door, and then a heavy body hurled itself upon his half-prostrate form.  Another stinging blow caught him over the ear, and, as he lost consciousness, a tremendous force seemed to be crushing the breath from his body.

A revolver cracked, but he did not hear it, nor did he know that friends were at hand.  Before the miscreants could hurl his body into the cab a vehicle whirled up, the feeble glare from its lanterns throwing light upon the scene.  The man who had fired from the door of the second cab leaped to the ground, followed by a companion, and in a moment they were among the scuffling robbers.  Whatever might have been the original intentions of Quentin’s assailants, they were not prepared to offer battle.  Their aim was to escape, not to fight.  A couple of shots were fired, a rush of feet ensued and the earth seemed to swallow all but the two newcomers and the limp figure that lay half inside the cab.

In an instant Quentin was drawn from the cab by the taller of the two, the smaller having made a short dash in pursuit of the bandits.  Blood rushed from the head of the unconscious man and he was a dead weight in the arms of his rescuer.

“Good God, Phil!  Have they killed you?  Here, Turk!  Never mind those fellows!  Come here, quick; we must get him to a surgeon.  I’m afraid they’ve fixed him.  Into our cab with him!  Gad, he’s like a rag!” It was Dickey Savage, and he was filled with dread.  Turk, exploding with impotent rage, and shivering with fear that his master was dead, came to his assistance and they were soon racing for the Bellevue.  A pair of wondering, patient, driverless horses watched the departure, but they did not move from the spot where they had been checked by the first attack.  Across the doubletree behind them hung the limp form of their driver, a great, gaping wound in his head.  He had driven them for the last time, and they seemed to know that his cold lips could never again command them to “go on.”  Driven almost to the hilt, in the floor of the cab, was an ugly knife.  Its point had been intended for Quentin’s throat, but the hand that struck the blow was not as true as the will of its owner.

In a high state of alarm and excitement the two men in the cab took their friend to his room, their advent creating great commotion in the hotel The wildest curiosity prevailed, and they were besieged with questions from hotel men, guests and the crowd that had found shelter from the storm.  Within ten minutes the news was spreading forth over the city that a wealthy American had been held up and murdered by the daring diamond thieves.  Police and reporters hurried to the hotel, and the uproar was intense.  The house surgeon was soon at work with the bloody, unconscious victim; Savage and Turk, with their friend, the millionaire, keeping the crowd away from the couch.  It was impossible to drive the people from the room until the police arrived.