“Theodora! Are you hurt? Really hurt?” he asked, in a dull tone, as if still too much overwhelmed by threatening misfortune to be greatly troubled about anything else.
“Hurt!” she exclaimed, pettishly. “Of course I am hurt. I overbalanced myself while leaning out of the window, and I fell out, and have broken my leg and one of my ribs, too, I think.”
“Shall we take you indoors?”
“No. Oh, no!” with energy. “You would hurt me too much. Leave me here till the doctor comes.”
The Colonel turned, and so did Clifford and the constable. For they all heard sounds as of an altercation in two men’s voices, and they presently caught sight of two men, the one apparently struggling to get away from the other, and the second endeavoring to hold his companion back. In the darkness, little more than this was visible to the three men in the garden; but the newcomers were near enough for their voices to be recognized.
“Let me go, let me go, or, by—”
Before he had heard more than this, Clifford was straining his eyes to pierce the gloom, full of interest, full of excitement.
“Why, surely,” cried he, “that’s George Claris’s voice!”
The two men were now near enough for Clifford to distinguish the man who was holding his companion back, and to recognize him as Hemming. The second constable went forward, as the struggling pair came within the garden gate, to the assistance of his fellow. At the same moment Colonel Bostal thrust his hand through Clifford’s arm, as if for support. The young man hardly noticed his action, so deeply absorbed was he in the problem presented by the sight of the struggling men. For the man whom both the policemen now held was, indeed, no other than George Claris, wild-eyed, fierce, crazy-looking, with straggling beard and unkempt hair.
And he was crying out still, with all the force of his lungs: