aris, I suppose," he grunted. "If you once get there, and into the
slums, the devil himself couldn't rout you out."

"Do you think we can make it?"

"Maybe." A shrug. "We could try the post road."

"All right. Let's go."

* * * * *

They jogged on through the night, the coach swaying and bumping over the
rough track. Then lights began to sparkle ahead. Baroc pulled up.

"The Golden Cock Inn," he grunted, nodding toward the lights.
"Morriere's guards will be there. We'll have to run for it, so be ready
for rough going."

The next instant they were rolling again. Closer the lights came, and
closer. Now they were almost abreast them....

"Halt!"

A man was running toward them, waving his arms.

Baroc shattered the night with a fearful oath. His long whip cracked
over the backs of the double-span of greys ahead. The horses leaped
forward.

They were past the inn, driving hellbent through the pitch-blackness of
the countryside. But behind them was a tumult of shouts, a wild
disorder.

Mark shot a glance through the window. Caught a glimpse of running
figures.

"Jacques! Are they after us?" There was panic in Elaine's voice.

A clatter of hooves answered her before Mark could open his mouth. The
girl clung to him, her face chalky with fear.

"If the baron catches me again, Jacques--"

"He won't catch you! I promise it, Elaine! He won't!"

But the words of Adrian Vance leaped into his brain like red-hot
branding irons:

_Elaine Duchard was tortured and murdered by Baron Morriere's
retainers!_

Were these men the ones history had marked to do the awful deed?

The thunder of hooves was almost upon them now. The coach rocked from
side to side. Bounced wildly from one rut to another.

A hoarse bellow from Baroc:

"They're coming, Jacques!"

Then out of the night like the wind itself the riders came. Big men,
with fierce eyes and savage, brutal faces. Men cut from the same pattern
as their master, Baron Morriere.

"Halt!"

"To hell with you!"

A rider surged ahead. He cut in toward the coach's horses.

"Oh, no, you don't!"

* * * * *

Baroc's whip lashed out. Bit into the face of the horseman. Laid the
flesh bare from eye to jaw. The man gave a shriek of agony. Pitched from
his saddle into the road. The coach leaped high as it struck his falling
body.

But the others closed in. One sprang from his horse to a precarious
perch on th