“It was a fair fight,” he stammered.

The constable waved him away.  “Get out o’ my sight before I change my mind,” he said, fiercely; “and mind, if you say a word about this it’ll be the worse for you.”

“Do you think I’ve gone mad?” said the other.  He took another look at his victim and, turning away, danced fantastically along the road home.  The constable, making his way to a gas-lamp, began to inspect damages.

They were worse even than he had thought, and, leaning against the lamp-post, he sought in vain for an explanation that, in the absence of a prisoner, would satisfy the inspector.  A button which was hanging by a thread fell tinkling on to the footpath, and he had just picked it up and placed it in his pocket when a faint distant outcry broke upon his ear.

He turned and walked as rapidly as his condition would permit in the direction of the noise.  It became louder and more imperative, and cries of “Police!” became distinctly audible.  He quickened into a run, and turning a corner beheld a little knot of people standing at the gate of a large house.  Other people only partially clad were hastening to-wards them.  The constable arrived out of breath.

“Better late than never,” said the owner of the house, sarcastically.

Mr. Evans, breathing painfully, supported himself with his hand on the fence.

“They went that way, but I suppose you didn’t see them,” continued the householder.  “Halloa!” he added, as somebody opened the hall door and the constable’s damaged condition became visible in the gas-light.  “Are you hurt?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Evans, who was trying hard to think clearly.  To gain time he blew a loud call on his whistle.

“The rascals!” continued the other.  “I think I should know the big chap with a beard again, but the others were too quick for me.”

Mr. Evans blew his whistle again—­thoughtfully.  The opportunity seemed too good to lose.

“Did they get anything?” he inquired.

“Not a thing,” said the owner, triumphantly.  “I was disturbed just in time.”

The constable gave a slight gulp.  “I saw the three running by the side of the road,” he said, slowly.  “Their behaviour seemed suspicious, so I collared the big one, but they set on me like wild cats.  They had me down three times; the last time I laid my head open against the kerb, and when I came to my senses again they had gone.”

He took off his battered helmet with a flourish and, amid a murmur of sympathy, displayed a nasty cut on his head.  A sergeant and a constable, both running, appeared round the corner and made towards’ them.

“Get back to the station and make your report,” said the former, as Constable Evans, in a somewhat defiant voice, repeated his story.  “You’ve done your best; I can see that.”

Mr. Evans, enacting to perfection the part of a wounded hero, limped painfully off, praying devoutly as he went that the criminals might make good their escape.  If not, he reflected that the word of a policeman was at least equal to that of three burglars.