had,
we must suppose, escaped from Morris's through the carelessness of one
of Logan Black's subordinates, crawled up the bank of the canal, which
he had swum, and made for the two gunmen, with the water dripping from
his eyeglass. He had recognized them as the men who had dogged and
assaulted him, and every other idea was obliterated in his desire for
vengeance.

"They fled. He pursued. He caught them, and they fought. They
succeeded in dropping one of the iron balls on his foot--on his bunion
foot, Mr. Cleggett--crippling him."

As this mention of the bunion, Miss Genevive Pringle arose with
dignity, and, flinging a shawl about her shoulders, left the cabin,
chin in air. She did not vouchsafe so much as one backward glance at
Cleggett or the three detectives or lady Agatha as she left, but
outraged propriety was expressed in every line of her figure.

"H'm," mused the detective, flushing slightly; and Watson Bard and
Barton Ward also colored a little, and looked hacked. They glanced
furtively at Lady Agatha, to see if she too might be offended.

"Proceed, Mr. Barnstable," she said a little impatiently. "Bunions
don't bother me, either mentally or physically. I am familiar with the
idea of bunions. There are many bunions in the Claiborne family."

"On his bunion foot, crippling him," resumed the detective, reassured.
"The storm came up, and still the gunmen fled, and still Reginald
Maltravers pursued. I suppose, since you saw them on the west side of
the canal, Mr. Cleggett, that they had run around the north end of it.
Probably, while you and Logan Black were fighting, they were running up
and down in the neighborhood, in the storm, intent only upon their own
feud."

"They certainly seemed exhausted when I saw them," said Cleggett, "all
three of them. But if you will permit me to say so, the astuteness
with which you are reconstructing this case compels my admiration."

Wilton Barnstable bowed, and Barton Ward and Watson Bard slightly
inclined their heads.

"Your skill," said Lady Agatha, "is equal to that of Sherlock Holmes."

At the name of Sherlock Holmes a shade passed over the face of Wilton
Barnstable. He slightly compressed his lips, and his eyebrows went up
a fraction of an inch. This shade was reflected on the faces of Barton
Ward and Watson Bard. There was a moment of silence, but presently
Wilton Barnstable continued, repressing a sigh:

"I thought at first, Mr. Cleggett, that you