So intent were they upon the matter in hand they never thought of looking out on the river. It was as dark now as it would be, and anyway the glow of the fire blinded them to what lay outside its radius. Suddenly out of the murk came with stunning effect a deep-throated hail:
“Stonor, is that you?”
The policeman straightened like a man who received an electric shock. A great light broke in his face.
“Lambert! Thank God!” he cried.
Two clumsy little pot-bellied collapsible boats grounded on the stones below their fire and, as it seemed to their confused senses, they were immediately surrounded by a whole crowd of friendly faces. Stonor was aware, not of one red coat, but of three, and two natives besides. The rubicund face of his commanding officer, Major Egerton, “Patch-pants” Egerton, the best-loved man in the North, swam before his eyes. Somehow or other he contrived to salute.
“I have the honour to turn over two prisoners, sir. This man who claims to be Doctor Ernest Imbrie, and this woman, name unknown to me.”
“Good work, Sergeant!” Having returned his salute, the little Major unbent, and offered Stonor his hand.
“This is a surprise, sir, to see you,” said the latter.
“I had just got to the Crossing on my rounds when your note came to Lambert. So I came right on with him.” Major Egerton’s glance took in Stonor’s bandaged skull and dripping clothes, the woman’s bound hands, and Imbrie just returning to consciousness. “I judge you’ve been having a strenuous time,” he remarked drily.
“Somewhat, sir.”