Once more he laid his hands upon the culprit. Peace, who was at this time kneeling on the sill of the window, preparatory to springing out, now found his situation a desperate one.
He struck out with his life-preserver, but from the position he occupied was unable to use it with anything like effect. With one hand James Jones fairly grasped the collar of Peace’s coat, and with the other he held the wrist of the burglar to prevent him from inflicting any more blows with his weapon.
A determined struggle now took place, and our hero, much to his chagrin, found that he was in the grasp of a formidable and powerful antagonist.
“You just let go, you d——d fool,” cried he, foaming with passion.
“Not if I know it,” returned James Jones. “No, my little beauty, don’t think to get off, because it’s time your game was put a stop to. So you are the chap as has been committing all these robberies. Glad to make your acquaintance. There’s a good many as will be glad to see you.”
“Are there?” cried Peace. “Are there, you ugly dirty flunkey.”
He hardly knew what to say bitter enough, but he was determined to run any risk rather than be taken prisoner, and had he happened at this time to be possessed of his revolver, the chances would have been that James Jabez Jones would have received the contents of one or more barrels: but he was without that useful weapon, and bitterly deplored this fact.
Jones stuck to him like a leech, and the burglar found it impossible to flee himself from his grasp.
Below him was the roof of the conservatory, in which Lord Fitzbogleton and Arabella Lovejoyce were conversing, altogether heedless of the scene that was taking place above them.
Peace threw his legs off the window-sill, electing to trust to chance. He then hung suspended therefrom, held only by the powerful arms of the footman, who strove to lift him up and drag him on to the sill.