who appeared with their
nightshirts tucked into their trousers, and my host was good enough to
compliment me as he led the way outside.

"I thought I heard a shot," he added. "Didn't you?"

"I thought I heard three."

And out we dashed into the darkness.

I remember how the gravel pricked my feet, how the wet grass numbed
them as we made for the sound of voices on an outlying lawn. So dark
was the night that we were in the cricketers' midst before we saw the
shimmer of their pyjamas; and then Lord Amersteth almost trod on
Mackenzie as he lay prostrate in the dew.

"Who's this?" he cried. "What on earth's happened?"

"It's Clephane," said a man who knelt over him. "He's got a bullet in
him somewhere."

"Is he alive?"

"Barely."

"Good God! Where's Crowley?"

"Here I am," called a breathless voice. "It's no good, you fellows.
There's nothing to show which way they've gone. Here's Raffles; he's
chucked it, too." And they ran up panting.

"Well, we've got one of them, at all events," muttered Lord Amersteth.
"The next thing is to get this poor fellow indoors. Take his
shoulders, somebody. Now his middle. Join hands under him. All
together, now; that's the way. Poor fellow! Poor fellow! His name
isn't Clephane at all. He's a Scotland Yard detective, down here for
these very villains!"

Raffles was the first to express surprise; but he had also been the
first to raise the wounded man. Nor had any of them a stronger or more
tender hand in the slow procession to the house.

In a little we had the senseless man stretched on a sofa in the
library. And there, with ice on his wound and brandy in his throat,
his eyes opened and his lips moved.

Lord Amersteth bent down to catch the words.

"Yes, yes," said he; "we've got one of them safe and sound. The brute
you collared upstairs." Lord Amersteth bent lower. "By Jove! Lowered
the jewel-case out of the window, did he? And they've got clean away
with it! Well, well! I only hope we'll be able to pull this good
fellow through. He's off again."

An hour passed: the sun was rising.

It found a dozen young fellows on the settees in the billiard-room,
drinking whiskey and soda-water in their overcoats and pyjamas, and
still talking excitedly in one breath. A time-table was being passed
from hand to hand: the doctor was still in the library. At last the
door opened, and Lord Amersteth put in his head.

"It isn't hopeless," said he, "but it'