It was a close chase in the darkness through the trees.  Mr Watkins was a loosely-built man and in good training, and he gained hand-over-hand upon the hoarsely panting figure in front.  Neither spoke, but, as Mr Watkins pulled up alongside, a qualm of awful doubt came over him.  The other man turned his head at the same moment and gave an exclamation of surprise.  “It’s not Jim,” thought Mr Watkins, and simultaneously the stranger flung himself, as it were, at Watkin’s knees, and they were forthwith grappling on the ground together.  “Lend a hand, Bill,” cried the stranger as the third man came up.  And Bill did—­two hands in fact, and some accentuated feet.  The fourth man, presumably Jim, had apparently turned aside and made off in a different direction.  At any rate, he did not join the trio.

Mr Watkins’ memory of the incidents of the next two minutes is extremely vague.  He has a dim recollection of having his thumb in the corner of the mouth of the first man, and feeling anxious about its safety, and for some seconds at least he held the head of the gentleman answering to the name of Bill, to the ground by the hair.  He was also kicked in a great number of different places, apparently by a vast multitude of people.  Then the gentleman who was not Bill got his knee below Mr Watkins’ diaphragm, and tried to curl him up upon it.

When his sensations became less entangled he was sitting upon the turf, and eight or ten men—­the night was dark, and he was rather too confused to count—­standing round him, apparently waiting for him to recover.  He mournfully assumed that he was captured, and would probably have made some philosophical reflections on the fickleness of fortune, had not his internal sensations disinclined him for speech.

He noticed very quickly that his wrists were not handcuffed, and then a flask of brandy was put in his hands.  This touched him a little—­it was such unexpected kindness.

“He’s a-comin’ round,” said a voice which he fancied he recognised as belonging to the Hammerpond second footman.

“We’ve got ’em, sir, both of ’em,” said the Hammerpond butler, the man who had handed him the flask.  “Thanks to you.”

No one answered this remark.  Yet he failed to see how it applied to him.

“He’s fair dazed,” said a strange voice; “the villains half-murdered him.”

Mr Teddy Watkins decided to remain fair dazed until he had a better grasp of the situation.  He perceived that two of the black figures round him stood side-by-side with a dejected air, and there was something in the carriage of their shoulders that suggested to his experienced eye hands that were bound together.  Two!  In a flash he rose to his position.  He emptied the little flask and staggered—­obsequious hands assisting him—­to his feet.  There was a sympathetic murmur.

“Shake hands, sir, shake hands,” said one of the figures near him.  “Permit me to introduce myself.  I am very greatly indebted to you.  It was the jewels of my wife, Lady Aveling, which attracted these scoundrels to the house.”