For part of the crowd came surging to the window, part went in one blind rush for the door to head him off and hem him in, and, through the din and hubbub rang viciously the voice of Margot shrilling out: "Kill him! Kill him!" as though nothing but the sight of his blood would glut the malice of her.
It was neck or nothing now, and the race was to the swift.

He dropped through a gap in the ragged roof--sheer down, like a shot--into the rubble and refuse below; he lurched through the shed to the door, and through that to the black passage leading to the street--the clatter on the higher staircase giving warning of the crowd coming after him--and flew like a hare hard pressed toward the outer door, and then--just then, when every little moment counted--there was a scrambling sound, a chorus of oaths, a slipping, a sliding, a bang on one step and a bump on another; and, as he darted by, and sprang out into the street, the hall was filled with a writhing, scuffling, swearing mass of glue-covered men struggling in a whirling waste of loose brown paper.
"This way! come quickly, for your life!" he shouted to Dollops, as he came plunging out into the street.

"They've got them--got his little lordship! Got Miss Lorne--in spite of me.

Come on! come on! come on!"-- and flew like an arrow from crossing to crossing and street to street with Dollops, like a shadow, at his heels.
A sudden swerve to the right brought them into a lighted and populous thoroughfare.

Italian restaurants, German delicatessen shops, eating places of a dozen other nationalities lined the pavements on both sides of the street, and, in front of these a high-power motor stood, protected by the watchful eye of an accommodating policeman while the chauffeur sampled Chianti in a wine-shop close by.