He stumbled into the room, followed by the constable, and two shafts of light from the lanterns at their belts danced round the room. A man lurking behind the door made a dash for it, and the next instant the three men were locked together.
Burleigh, standing in the doorway, looked on coldly, reserving himself for the scene which was to follow. Except for the stumbling of the men and the sharp catch of the prisoner’s breath, there was no noise. A helmet fell off and bounced and rolled along the floor. The men fell; there was a sobbing snarl and a sharp click. A tall figure rose from the floor; the other, on his knees, still held the man down. The standing figure felt in his pocket, and, striking a match, lit the gas.
The light fell on the flushed face and fair beard of the sergeant. He was bare-headed, and his hair dishevelled. Burleigh entered the room and gazed eagerly at the half-insensible man on the floor-a short, thick-set fellow with a white, dirty face and a black moustache. His lip was cut and bled down his neck. Burleigh glanced furtively at the table. The cloth had come off in the struggle, and was now in the place where he had left Fletcher.
“Hot work, sir,” said the sergeant, with a smile. “It’s fortunate we were handy.”
The prisoner raised a heavy head and looked up with unmistakable terror in his eyes.
“All right, sir,” he said, trembling, as the constable increased the pressure of his knee. “I ’ain’t been in the house ten minutes altogether. By —, I’ve not.”
The sergeant regarded him curiously.
“It don’t signify,” he said, slowly; “ten minutes or ten seconds won’t make any difference.”
The man shook and began to whimper.
“It was ’ere when I come,” he said, eagerly; “take that down, sir. I’ve only just come, and it was ’ere when I come. I tried to get away then, but I was locked in.”