“What do you expect me to do?” he protested, when I remonstrated.  “Hang out a red lantern?  What was that?  Listen.”

We both stood peering into the gloom.  The sharp patter of the rain on leaves had ceased, and from just ahead there came back to us the stealthy padding of feet in wet soil.  My hand closed on Hotchkiss’ shoulder, and we listened together, warily.  The steps were close by, unmistakable.  The next flash of lightning showed nothing moving:  the house was in full view now, dark and uninviting, looming huge above a terrace, with an Italian garden at the side.  Then the blackness again.  Somebody’s teeth were chattering:  I accused Hotchkiss but he denied it.

“Although I’m not very comfortable, I’ll admit,” he confessed; “there was something breathing right at my elbow here a moment ago.”

“Nonsense!” I took his elbow and steered him in what I made out to be the direction of the steps of the Italian garden.  “I saw a deer just ahead by the last flash; that’s what you heard.  By Jove, I hear wheels.”

We paused to listen and Hotchkiss put his hand on something close to us.  “Here’s your deer,” he said.  “Bronze.”

As we neared the house the sense of surveillance we had had in the park gradually left us.  Stumbling over flower beds, running afoul of a sun-dial, groping our way savagely along hedges and thorny banks, we reached the steps finally and climbed the terrace.

It was then that Hotchkiss fell over one of the two stone urns which, with tall boxwood trees in them, mounted guard at each side of the door.  He didn’t make any attempt to get up.  He sat in a puddle on the brick floor of the terrace and clutched his leg and swore softly in Government English.

The occasional relief of the lightning was gone.  I could not see an outline of the house before me.  We had no matches, and an instant’s investigation showed that the windows were boarded and the house closed.  Hotchkiss, still recumbent, was ascertaining the damage, tenderly peeling down his stocking.

“Upon my soul,” he said finally, “I don’t know whether this moisture is blood or rain.  I think I’ve broken a bone.”

“Blood is thicker than water,” I suggested.  “Is it sticky?  See if you can move your toes.”

There was a pause:  Hotchkiss moved his toes.  By that time I had found a knocker and was making the night hideous.  But there was no response save the wind that blew sodden leaves derisively in our faces.  Once Hotchkiss declared he heard a window-sash lifted, but renewed violence with the knocker produced no effect.

“There’s only one thing to do,” I said finally.  “I’ll go back and try to bring the buggy up for you.  You can’t walk, can you?”

Hotchkiss sat back in his puddle and said he didn’t think he could stir, but for me to go back to town and leave him, that he didn’t have any family dependent on him, and that if he was going to have pneumonia he had probably got it already.  I left him there, and started back to get the horse.