surely he might trust to his luck!

These were the arguments in his favour. Against him were the chances
that his companion might show fight; that he might check his
prisoner's exit until his comrade on the box could come to the rescue;
or that some officious bystander might act on the side of the law; or
that a shot might drop him as he fled; or, finally, and most probably
of all, that he might be drowned in the turbulent stream.

Gascoigne was not long in coming to a decision. "Nothing venture,
nothing have," was his watchword. At this moment the cab was near the
end of the Quai aux Fleurs, near the Pont d'Arcole. There was no time
to be lost; at any moment it might turn down from the river, taking
one of the cross streets. Setting his teeth firmly, and nerving
himself for a supreme effort, Gascoigne sprang suddenly upon the
police-agent, twisted his hands inside the stiff stock, and, having
thus nearly throttled him, felled him with two tremendous blows.

With a groan, the man fell to the bottom of the cab; the next instant
Gascoigne had opened the door and dropped into the roadway.

The escape was observed by one or two passers-by; but they were
evidently people who owed the police no good-will, for, although they
stood still to watch the fugitive, they did not give the alarm. This
came first from the policeman who had been assaulted, who, recovering
quickly from the attack, roared lustily to his fellow for help. The
cab stopped, the officials alighted hurriedly, and looking to right
and left caught sight of Gascoigne as he stood upon the parapet and
made his plunge into the river. Both rushed to the spot, pistol in
hand.

Down below was the figure of their escaped prisoner battling with the
rapid stream. Both fired, almost simultaneously, and one at least must
have hit the mark.

Gascoigne's body turned over and then sank, leaving a small crimson
stain upon the water.

Was he killed? Drowned? That is what no one could tell; but it was
certain that no corpse answering the Englishman's description was ever
recovered from the river; nor, on the other hand, did the police, in
spite of an active pursuit, lay hands on their prisoner again alive.

CHAPTER IV.

A SPIDER'S WEB.

Some half a dozen years after the occurrences just recorded there was
a great gathering one night at Essendine House, a palatial mansion
occupying the whole angle of a great London square. The
reception-rooms upon the first fl