Half a thousand men gave chase; but the assailant had escaped to
the common shelter of the coasting town. He had taken to the water.
It was now quite dark; clouds had gathered; the wind had risen
suddenly; thunder was heard. A fierce gust tore the dust of Angel
Alley, and hurled it after the fleeing criminal; as if even the
earth that he trod rejected him. In this blinding and suffocating
whirlwind the pursuers stumbled over each other, and ran at
haphazard. The police swept every skulking-place, dividing their
forces between the Alley and the docks. But their man, who was
shrewd enough, had evaded them; it was clear that he had marked out
an intelligent map of escape, and had been able to follow it.
The baffled police, thinking at least to pacify the angry people
behind them, kept up that appearance of energy, with that absence
of expectation, for which their race is distinguished.
An officer who was stealthily studying the docks far to the
westward, and alone, suddenly stopped. A cry for help reached
him; and it was a woman’s cry. The voice kept up an interrupted
iteration:--
“Police! Help!--Murder! Sergeant!--Help! Help!” as if choked off,
or strangled in the intervals.
The sergeant, following the sound as well as he could, leaped down
the long, empty wharf from whose direction the cry seemed to come,
and peered over the slimy edge. The storm was passing noisily up
the sky, and the darkness was of the deepest.