"The madman is in the garden! He ran this way."
"Diable!" said Monsieur Dupont.
"I found him sneaking towards the house. He bolted out here."
Unaccustomed to physical exertion, the manager laid a heavy hand on Monsieur Dupont's shoulder, and mopped his forehead breathlessly.
"The scoundrel means mischief," he declared. "He must be found."
"Where is Mr. Copplestone?"
"I called him, but couldn't get an answer. He must be away at the other end of the garden."
"No one has passed this way," Monsieur Dupont assured him. "For a half-hour I have been wandering about these horrible paths."
"It's a devil of a garden," the manager admitted. "The fellow won't get very far. Let's look about here."
Fortified with a fresh supply of breath, he released Monsieur Dupont's shoulder, and made a brisk movement towards the direction from which the Frenchman had come.