scrambled through, with the aid of Mr. Damon, and before the guards could again spring at him, which they did when the echoes of the shot had died away. They had realized, too late, that it was not a bomb, and that there was no immediate danger for them.
"Come on!" cried Tom. "Make for the airship! We've got to get the start of them!"
Leading the way, he sprinted toward the road that led to the place where the airship awaited them. He was followed by Mr. Damon and the detective, who had Mr. Petrofsky between them.
"Are you all right?" Tom called back to the exile. "Are you hurt? Can you run?"
"I'm all right," was the reassuring answer. "Go ahead; but they'll be right after us."
"Maybe they'll stop when they see this," remarked the detective significantly, and he held his revolver so that the rays of the newly-risen moon glinted on it.
"Here they come!" cried Tom a moment later, as three figures, one after the other, came around the corner of the house. They had not taken the shorter route through the window, as had Mr. Petrofsky, and this gained a little time for our friends.
"Stop! Hold on!" cried one of the guards in fairly good English. "That is our prisoner."
