"Where are you?" asked another voice.
"Here! Help! help!"
Hugh Ritson ran toward the place whence the first voice came, and saw the figure of a man stooping over something that lay on the ground. At the same moment another man rushed up and laid strong hold of the stooping figure. There was a short, sharp struggle. The two men were of one stature, one strength. There was a sound as of cloth ripped asunder.
At the next moment one of the men went by like the wind and was lost in the blackness of the fields. But Hugh Ritson had held up the lantern as the man passed, and caught one swift glimpse of his face. He knew him.
A group had gathered about the injured person on the ground and about the other man who had struggled to defend him.
"Could you not hold the scoundrel?" said one.
"I held him till his coat came to pieces in my hand. See here," said the other.
Hugh Ritson knew the voice.
"A piece of Irish frieze, I should say" (feeling it).
"You must have gripped him by the lappel of his ulster. Let me keep this. I am a police sergeant. What is your name, sir?"