“I suppose so,” said the barrister dubiously. “You had better look sharp after me, inspector. They may hear the first splash, and then——”
At this moment they became aware of steps and voices in the passage. The inspector almost pushed his companion off and hoisted himself in his place on the window frame. Steadman had no time to dive. He went down, it seemed to him, with a deafening splash and a roar of churning paddles. The inspector came down at once almost on top of him. The water felt bitterly cold, but after the first shock it braced their jangled nerves; its very cold was grateful to their bruised bodies.
The two men came up almost together, and moved by the same impulse struck out for the middle of the river. The moonshine was lying like silver sheen on the surface of the water. Steadman realized that their heads must afford a capital target to any members of the Yellow Gang who were in the house they had left. The thought had barely formulated itself before a shot rang out and he felt something just rush by his ear and miss it. There came another shot and another, and a groan from the inspector. Steadman realized that he was hit, but the injury must have been slight, for the inspector was swimming onwards. Meanwhile the shots were not passing unnoticed. From the small craft around, from the houses on the bank there came shouts; lights were flashed here, there and everywhere. Steadman became conscious of a familiar sound—that of the rhythmic splash of oars working in concert. He trod water and listened.
There came a gasping shout from the detective.
“The police patrol from the motor-launch down the river! They have heard the shots.”
He struck out towards the on-coming boat, Steadman following to the best of his ability. The inspector's shout was answered from the boat. It lay to and waited, and the two in the river could see the men in the boat leaning over peering into the water. There came no more shots, but as the inspector swam forward Steadman knew that the police boat had sighted them, and in another moment they were alongside.
Willing hands were stretched out, and they were hauled up the boat's side. The inspector's first proceeding as soon as he had got his breath was to order the boat to lie to so that he might locate the house and if possible the window by which they had escaped. The police officer in charge looked at him curiously; it was evident that he resented the authoritative tone; and as he met his glance Steadman at any rate realized something of the extraordinary figures they must present to his eyes. Stark naked, bruised from head to foot, with faces bleeding and in the inspector's case swollen out of all recognition they looked singularly unlike Inspector Furnival, the terror of the criminal classes, or John Steadman, the usually immaculately attired barrister.
But they were being offered overcoats; as the inspector slipped into his, he said sharply:
“Inspector Furnival, of the C.I.D., Scotland Yard.”
The police officer's manner underwent an instant modification.