A few yards down he came upon a heap of stones piled up across the path. Any one clambering across this must have made noise enough to be heard twenty yards away, and, as far as he could judge in the darkness, no one had stepped upon it. He therefore turned back hurriedly and retraced his steps.
The sullen water, hissing still under the heavy rain, gave no sign as he ran along its edge and scanned it with anxious eyes.
The high bank on his left, beyond the palings, became inaccessible from below. The wanderer must, therefore, be before him on the path.
For five minutes he ran on, straining his eyes and ears, when suddenly he stumbled. It was a hat upon the path.
In a moment Jeffreys dived into the cold water. As he came to the surface and looked round there was nothing but the spreading circles of his own plunge to be seen; but a moment afterwards, close to the bank, he had a glimpse of something black rising for an instant and then disappearing. Three strokes brought him to the spot just as the object rose again.
To seize it and strike out for the bank was the work of a moment. The man—for it was he—was alive, and as Jeffreys slowly drew him from the water he opened his eyes and made a faint resistance.
“Let me go!” he said with an oath; “let me go!”
But his head fell heavily on his rescuer’s shoulder while he spoke, and when at last he lay on the path he was senseless.
Jeffreys carried him to the shelter of an arch, and there did what he could to restore animation. It was too dark to see the man’s face, but he could feel his pulse still beating, and presently he gave a sigh and moved his head.
“What did you do it for?” he said piteously.