Once more Clifford dodged, and reached an opening in the thick shrubbery which bordered the drive. As he dashed in among the trees his foot caught in a root, and down he came with a crash that knocked the remaining breath out of him.
His pursuer was so close that he could not stop, and, tripping over the boy, went over on his head, burying his knife deep in the ground.
At the same moment a gaunt, middle-aged man with a gray beard and hair burst out of the thick bushes alongside, and hurled himself upon Clifford's assailant.
Clifford, scrambling wildly to his feet, saw the big man struggling to rise. He was howling with rage, and in his bull-like fury was throwing the other about like a feather.
Clifford glanced round. A dead branch lay close by. It was the work of an instant to snatch it up and bring it with all his force across the great head of his would-be murderer.
"Well done!" cried the gray-bearded man, as the other straightened out and lay still. "I've often told them that Prynne was dangerous. But how did you get here?"
He turned, and for the first time caught sight of Clifford's face.
For a moment the two stared at one another in an amazement beyond any description.
Then staggering back, with face white as chalk, the elder man muttered, "Clifford!"
"Father!" replied the boy, unable to believe his eyes.