As he followed the ball he saw that the wind had taken it close to the trees, if not in amongst them, and he cursed fiercely again.
When he came up, however, he found that it lay about six feet from the edge of the wood, and, with an exclamation of satisfaction, he took his cleek out of the bag and swung it once or twice over his shoulder.
His back was toward the trees, and he did not see the figure which crept stealthily out of the underbrush.
The next instant there was a rush behind him, something struck him on the back, and, taken by surprise, the clubman lost his footing and fell, with Jim Hanlon on top of him, clutching his windpipe with all the strength in his slim, muscular fingers.
After the first, momentary shock of surprise, Stovebridge struggled desperately, finally succeeding in tearing the choking fingers from his throat and struggling to his feet. For a moment he stood silent, his breath coming in gasps and his eyes full of a great fear, as he faced the crouching figure before him.
Then, without warning, the clubman snatched up the iron-headed cleek and, springing forward, struck the other a terrific blow over the head.
Hanlon reeled and collapsed in a silent heap on the ground, blood smearing his forehead.
For a full minute Stovebridge stood as if turned to stone. His face was white as chalk, as he gazed in horror-stricken fascination at the silent thing before him.
Then he passed one shaking hand across his forehead in a dazed manner.
“What have I done?” he muttered in a strange voice. “What have I done?”