“How many of them do you think there were, Mr. John, sir?” one asked presently.  “I’ll lay you marked a fair sight of the villains.”

“There was only one man,” Mr. John answered briefly.

“Only one?” the other repeated in great surprise.  “For the Lord’s sake, Mr. John—­only one?  Why, there ain’t any one man between here and Lunnon town could stand up to you, sir, in a fair tussle.”

“Well, he did,” Mr. John answered.  “He had the advantage, he took me by surprise, but I never felt such a grip in my life.”

“Lor’, now, think of that,” said the other in tones in which surprise seemed mingled with a certain incredulity.  “It don’t seem possible, but for sure, then, he don’t come from these here parts, that I’ll stand to.”

“I knew that much before,” retorted Mr. John.  “I said all the time they were outsiders, a London gang very likely.  You’ll have to get Dr. Rawson, Bates.  I don’t know what’s up, but I’ve a beast of a pain in my side.  I can hardly breathe.”

Bates murmured respectful sympathy as they came out of the shelter of the trees, and crossing some open ground, reached a road along the further side of which ran a high brick wall.

In this, nearly opposite the spot where they emerged on the road, was a small door which one of the men opened and through which they passed and locked it behind them, leaving Dunn without.

He hesitated for a moment, half-minded to scale the wall and continue on the other side of it to follow them.

Calculating the direction in which the village of Ramsdon must lie, he turned that way and had gone only a short distance when he was overtaken by a pedestrian with whom he began conversation by asking for a light for his pipe.

The man seemed inclined to be conversational, and after a few casual remarks, Dunn made an observation on the length of the wall they were passing and to the end of which they had just come.

“Must be a goodish-sized place in there,” he said.  “Whose is it?”

“Oh, that there’s Ramsdon Place,” the other answered.  “Mr. John Clive lives there now his father’s dead.”

Dunn stood still in the middle of the road.

“Who?  What?” he stammered.  “Who—­who did you say?”

“Mr. John Clive,” the other repeated.  “Why—­what’s wrong about that?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Dunn answered, but his voice shook a little with what seemed almost fear, and behind the darkness of the friendly night his face had become very pale.  “Clive—­John Clive, you say?  Oh, that’s impossible.”

“Needn’t believe it if you don’t want to,” grumbled the other.  “Only what do you want asking questions for if you thinks folks tells lies when they answers them?”

“I didn’t mean that, of course not,” exclaimed Dunn hurriedly, by no means anxious to offend the other.  “I’m very sorry, I only meant it was impossible it should be the same Mr. John Clive I knew once, though I think he came from about here somewhere.  A little, middle-aged man, I mean, quite bald and wears glasses?”