I was just in time.  Mr. Fortescue, with his back against the tree, was defending himself with his sword-stick against the two Italians, each of whom, armed with a long dagger, was doing his best to get at him without falling foul of the sword.

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?”

“You were at Paris last summer.”

“But you did not see me there.”

“No, but Giacomo did; and from your name and appearance we felt sure you were the same.”

“Who is Giacomo—­your brother?”

“No, my cousin, the son of Luigi.”

“What is he?”

“He belongs to the secret police.”

“So Giacomo put you on the scent?”

“Yes, sir.  He ascertained that you were living in England.  The rest was easy.”

“Oh, it was, was it?  You don’t find yourself very much at ease just now, I fancy.  And now, my young friend, I am going to treat you better than you deserve.  I can afford to do so, for, as you see, and, as your grandfather and your father discovered to their cost, I bear a charmed life.  You cannot kill me.  You may go.  And I advise you to return to France or Corsica, or wherever may be your home, with all speed, for to-morrow I shall denounce you to the police, and if you are caught you know what to expect.  Who is your accomplice—­a kinsman?”

“No, only compatriot, whose acquaintance I made in London.  He is a coward.”

“Evidently.  One more question and I have done.  Have you any brothers?”