Clifford’s assailant obeyed this rough command without a moment’s hesitation; and when Clifford, feeling himself suddenly released, turned round, he only saw a glimpse of a man’s figure as it plunged into the darkness again.
“Who was that?” asked the young man in astonishment, as he perceived that his rescuer made no attempt to follow him.
It was Hemming, the London detective, who stood before him, and he only shrugged his shoulders.
“Only a man I’ve got to help me in this business,” answered he, with a gesture in the direction of the Colonel’s house. “He made a mistake, that was all.”
“What business do you mean?” asked Clifford, uneasily.
“Well, sir, I think you ought to know by this time,” replied Hemming, evasively.
Clifford pondered for a few moments. Then he asked:
“Have you been to the house?”
“No, sir. I’m waiting for further instructions first.”
Clifford looked at the little weather-beaten dwelling, which had lights in two of the upper windows. He fancied he could detect a watching figure behind the narrow curtain of one of them.