Ancliffe essayed to get through the opening feet first. It was a
tight squeeze, or else some one held him back. There came a crashing
of wood; Ancliffe's body whirled in the aperture and he struggled
violently. Allie heard hissing, sibilant Spanish utterances. She
stood petrified, certain that Durade had attacked Ancliffe. Suddenly
the Englishman crashed through, drawing a supple, twisting, slender
man with him. He held this man by the throat with one hand and by
the wrist with the other. Allie recognized Durade's Mexican ally. He
gripped a knife and the blade was bloody.
Once inside, where Ancliffe could move, he handled the Mexican with
deliberate and remorseless ease. Allie saw him twist and break the
arm which held the knife. Not that sight, but the eyes of the
Mexican made Allie close her own. When she opened them, at a touch,
Ancliffe stood beside her and the Mexican lay quivering. Ancliffe
held the bloody knife; he hid it under his coat.
"Come," he said. His voice seemed thin.
"But Hough! We must--"
Ancliffe's strange gesture froze Allie's lips. She followed him--
clung close to him. There were voices near--and persons. All seemed
to fall back before the Englishman. He strode on. Indeed, his
movements appeared unnatural. They went down a low stairway, out
into the dark.
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