"Tush! That isn't in your line."
"Must I be lashed by your wit, too? The rope was applied to me, not to Fenley."
"You don't mean to say, sir," broke in one of the astounded policemen, "that you think Mr. Hilton killed his own father!"
"Was it you who got that punch in the tummy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, save your breath. You'll want it when the muscles stiffen. 'Cré nom d'un pipe! To think that I, Furneaux of the Yard, should queer the finest pitch I ever stood on."
"Oh, come now, Charles," said Winter. "Don't cry over spilt milk. You'll catch Fenley all right before the weather changes. What really happened?"
Aware of the paramount necessity of suppressing his personal woes, Furneaux at once gave a graphic and succinct account of Fenley's imminent capture and escape. He was scrupulously fair, and exonerated his assistants from any share of the blame—if indeed any one could be held accountable for the singular accident which precipitated matters by a few vital seconds.
Had Fenley reached the ground before the torch revealed the detective's presence, the latter would have closed with him instantly, throwing the torch aside, and thus taking the prisoner at the disadvantage which the fortune of war had brought to bear against the law. Furneaux was wiry though slight, and he could certainly have held his man until reënforcements came; nor would the constables' lamps have been extinguished during the mêlée.