A moment later there came, to my horror, a rush of footsteps coming in my direction, with the loud breathing of a running man.

I turned my lantern down the long, straight passage, and there was the fat man, running like the wind, with a smear of blood across his face, and close at his heels, bounding like a tiger, the great black-bearded Sikh, with a knife flashing in his hand.

I have never seen a man run so fast as that little merchant.
He was gaining on the Sikh, and I could see that if he once passed me and got to the open air he would save himself yet.

My heart softened to him, but again the thought of his treasure turned me hard and bitter.

I cast my firelock between his legs as he raced past, and he rolled twice over like a shot rabbit.