Peace ran better perhaps than he had ever done in his life, and this is saying a great deal. He was far ahead of the detective, who was by this time winded, and was within from twenty to five-and-twenty paces of the robber, who had now come close to the river.
His capture seemed inevitable; but being well-nigh driven to desperation, he made a flying leap, and plunged into the stream just as Peace had made sure of seizing him.
The thief was evidently an expert swimmer. He struck out and made for the opposite shore.
“Curse him! he’ll get clear off after all,” shrieked out the detective, in an agony of despair. “Can you swim?”
“No, I can’t, and I don’t intend to try,” returned Peace. “Can you?”
“A little, but not well enough to venture with my clothes on in a running stream like this.”
“Then wait till he reaches the opposite bank,” cried our hero, levelling his pistol.
The robber now got into shallow water, through which he waded as quick as possible.
Peace fired and wounded the fugitive, who staggered, but had sufficient strength left to run behind a large granary in the opposite meadow, which sheltered him from any further discharge from the revolver.
“He’s wounded and wet to the skin. He can’t run far. I’ll after him,” exclaimed our hero, who made for a small wooden bridge, situated at about sixty or seventy yards from where he stood. He reached the bridge in the space of a minute or two, passed over it, and gained the field beyond.