“No, sir, I wasn’t likely to do that. I stuck to him and he pitched himself backwards. I lost my balance, and we both fell through the conservatory.”
“Well, I never heard of such a thing—a burglar in the house, a ruffian of this nature in our midst,” ejaculated Sir Eric Batershall. “But you’ve done your duty and deserve the highest possible praise.”
Peace, who had by this time partially recovered, heard the latter part of the conversation; he deemed it prudent, however, to remain as if insensible.
He had a large bump on the back of his head, and was in great pain, but he bore this without even a groan or sigh.
“You had better have your wounds dressed, James,” said Lady Marvlynn, “after which you will be able to give us a more lucid and detailed description of all that has taken place.”
A medical gentleman who happened to be one of the party made an examination of Mr. Jones’s injuries, which he said were fortunately but of a superficial nature. When this had been done he turned his attention to the other patient.
Charles Peace was lifted up and placed on his legs, whereupon he uttered a deep groan.
“Perhaps he is mortally wounded, poor fellow,” cried Miss Fagg.
“Poor fellow, indeed!” exclaimed several. “A scoundrel like him is not worthy of sympathy.”
But Charles Peace, beyond the bump on his head and divers and sundry other bruises, was not so very bad after all, but he pretended to be at death’s door.