presently. Let me lend them a hand over yonder." The man went by him in
the darkness.

Hark!

Hugh Ritson heard a cry from the field beyond the bank. It was there
that they had placed the injured.

"Help! help! I am robbed--- help!" came out of the darkness.

"Where are you?" asked another voice.

"Here! Help! help!"

Hugh Ritson ran toward the place whence the first voice came, and saw
the figure of a man stooping over something that lay on the ground. At
the same moment another man rushed up and laid strong hold of the
stooping figure. There was a short, sharp struggle. The two men were of
one stature, one strength. There was a sound as of cloth ripped asunder.

At the next moment one of the men went by like the wind and was lost in
the blackness of the fields. But Hugh Ritson had held up the lantern as
the man passed, and caught one swift glimpse of his face. He knew him.

A group had gathered about the injured person on the ground and about
the other man who had struggled to defend him.

"Could you not hold the scoundrel?" said one.

"I held him till his coat came to pieces in my hand. See here," said the
other.

Hugh Ritson knew the voice.

"A piece of Irish frieze, I should say" (feeling it).

"You must have gripped him by the lappel of his ulster. Let me keep
this. I am a police sergeant. What is your name, sir?"

"Paul Ritson."

"And your address?"

"I was on my way to Morley's Hotel, Trafalgar Square. What place is
this?"

"Hendon."

"Could one get accommodation here for the night? A lady is with me."

"Best go up by the twelve-thirty, sir."

"The lady is too much worn and excited. Any hotel, inn, lodging-house?"

A porter came up.

"The Hawk and Heron's handiest. A mile, sir. Drayton--it's him as keeps
it--he's here somewhere. Drayton!" (calling).

"Can you get me a fly, my good fellow?"

"Yes, sir."

The police sergeant moved off.

"Then I may look for you at the Hawk and Heron?" he said.

Hugh Ritson heard all. He kept the lantern down. In the darkness not a
face of that group was seen of any man.

A quarter of an hour later, Hugh Ritson, panting for breath, was
knocking at the door of the inn. The landlady within fumbled with the
iron bar behind it.

"Come, quick!" said Hugh.

The door opened, and he stepped in sharply, bathed in perspiration.

"Is your son back?" he said, catching his breath.

"Back, sir? No, sir; it's a mercy if he gets home afore morning, sir;