On arriving at his own residence, Swinton’s servants scarcely recognised him. It was as much as his own wife could do. There were several dark weals traced diagonally across his cheeks, with a purple shading around his left “peeper”; for in punishing the spy, Maynard had made use not only of an implement of the hunting-field, but one more peculiar to the “ring.”
With a skin full of sore bones, and many ugly abrasions, Swinton tottered indoors, to receive the sympathies of his beloved Fan.
She was not alone in bestowing them. Sir Robert Cottrell had dropped in during his absence; and the friendly baronet appeared as much pained as if the sufferer had been his brother.
He had less difficulty in counterfeiting sorrow. His chagrin at the quick return supplied him with an inspiration.
“What is it, my dear Swinton? For heaven’s sake tell us what has happened to you?”
“You see, Sir Robert,” answered the maltreated man.
“I see that you’ve suffered some damage. But who did it?”
“Footpads in the Park. I was driving around it to get to the east side. You know that horrid place this side of the Zoo Gardens?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Sir Robert.
“Well; I’d got round there, when all at once the cab was stopped by half a score of scoundrels, and I was instantly pulled out into the road. While half of them took hold of the driver, the other half proceeded to search my pockets. Of course I resisted; and you see what’s come of it. They’d have killed me but for a policeman who chanced to come up, after I’d done my best, and was about getting the worst of it. They then ran off, leaving me in this precious condition—damn them!”