The rascals were so intent on their murderous business that they neither heard nor saw me, and, taking them in the rear, I fetched the guitar-player a crack on his skull that stretched him senseless on the ground, whereupon the other villain, without more ado, took to his heels.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Fortescue, quietly, as he put up his weapon. “I don’t think I could have kept the brigands at bay much longer. A sword-stick is no match for a pair of Corsican daggers. The next time I take a walk I must have a revolver. Is that fellow dead, do you think? If he is, I shall be still more in your debt.”
I looked at the prostrate man’s face, then at his head. “No,” I said, “there is no fracture. He is only stunned.” My diagnosis was verified almost as soon as it was spoken. The next moment the Italian opened his eyes and sat up, and had I not threatened him with my blackthorn would have sprung to his feet.
“You have to thank this gentleman for saving your life,” said Mr. Fortescue, in French.
“How?” asked the fellow in the same language.
“If you had killed me you would have been hanged. If I hand you over to the police you will get twenty years at the hulks for attempted murder, and unless you answer my questions truly I shall hand you over to the police. You are a Griscelli.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which of them?”
“I am Giuseppe, the son of Giuseppe.”
“In that case you are his grandson. How did you find me out?”