“Clear out quick!  Quiet!  If you want to go on living.  I’ll stop them from following if I can.  If you make the least noise you’re done for.”

Most likely the man they had seen in his company would be with him, and both of them would be armed.  Neither Clive nor Dunn had a weapon, and Dunn saw the danger of the position and took the only course available.

“Go,” he whispered fiercely into Clive’s ear.

CHAPTER XV

THE SOUND OF A SHOT

He melted away into the darkness as he spoke, and through the night he slipped, one shadow more amongst many, from tree to bush, from bush to tree.  Across a patch of open grass he crawled on his hands and knees; and once lay flat on his face when against the skyline he saw a figure he was sure was Deede Dawson’s creep by a yard or two on his right hand.

On his left another shadow showed, distinguishable in the night only because it moved.

In a moment both shadows were gone, secret and deadly in the dark, and Dunn was very sure that Clive’s life and his own both hung upon a slender chance, for if either of them was discovered the leaping bullet would do the rest.

It would be safe and easy—­suspected burglars in a garden at midnight—­nothing could be said.  He lay very still with his face to the dewy sod, and all the night seemed full to him of searching footsteps and of a swift and murderous going to and fro.

He heard distinctly from the road a sudden, muffled sound as Clive in the darkness blunderingly missed his footing and fell upon one knee.

“That’s finished him,” Dunn thought grimly, his ears straining for the sharp pistol report that would tell Clive’s tale was done, and then he was aware of a cat, a favourite of Ella’s and often petted by himself, that was crouching near by under a tree, most likely much puzzled and alarmed by this sudden irruption of hurrying men into its domain.  Instantly Dunn saw his chance, and seizing the animal, lifted it and threw it in the direction where he guessed Deede Dawson to be.

His guess was good and fortune served him well, for the tabby flying caterwauling through the air alighted almost exactly in front of Deede Dawson on top of a small bush.  For a moment it hung there, quite unhurt, but very frightened, and emitted a yell, then fled.

In the quietness the tumult of its scrambling flight sounded astonishingly loud, so that it sounded as through a miniature avalanche had been let loose in the garden.

“Only cats,” Deede Dawson exclaimed disgustedly, and from behind, nearer the house, Dunn called: 

“Who’s there?  What is it?  What’s the matter?  Is it Mr. Dawson?  Is anything wrong?”

“I think there is,” said Deede Dawson softly.  “I think, perhaps, there is.  What are you doing out here at this time of night, Charley Wright?”