Slowly the left wing of the gate was sinking inwards.

Through the widening chasm I caught a glimpse of wild, grimy faces and bloodshot eyes, and heard above the noise a sharp cry from Croisette--a cry of terror.

Then I turned and ran, with a defiant gesture and an answering yell, right across the forecourt and up the steps to the door.
I ran the faster for the sharp report of a pistol behind me, and the whirr of a ball past my ear.

But I was not scared by it: and as my feet alighted with a bound on the topmost step, I glanced back.

The dogs were halfway across the court.