Not until now did Darrin have time to think of Pembroke.
“I must get that blackguard!” he muttered, running down into the compound.
At first Dave could not locate the fellow. At last, however, he sighted him, half-hiding against a part of the wall where the gloom was most pronounced.
“Well, sir?” demanded the young officer, striding up to the man who held a handkerchief against his injured scalp.
“Was it you who struck me down?” demanded Pembroke.
“It was.”
“Why did you do such a dastardly thing?”
“Das—” gasped Dave, astounded. “See here, fellow, don’t you believe that I knew what you were up to?”
“I—I was trying to close the gate, which some of the scoundrels outside had partly succeeded in opening,” Pembroke asserted stoutly.
“You lie!” retorted Ensign Darrin, staring sternly into the Englishman’s eyes. “You were opening the gate. The direction in which you were swinging the wheel proved that. And I struck you down!”