Without a word, both detectives rushed down the road to his assistance.
As they drew nearer there came a flash of light, then the report of a
pistol, followed by another shriek for help.
Then Nick saw one of the ruffians reel a little, as if shot, while a
second hurled their victim to the ground. The third leaped to his feet
at the same moment, yelling wildly:
"Look out! Scatter, boys! The cops are upon us!"
"Kilgore's voice, or I'm a liar," muttered Nick, over his shoulder.
Both detectives were still fifty yards from the scene of the furious
conflict, and were running at the top of their speed along the rough
road.
Before they could come near enough to use a weapon, however, the three
ruffians scattered like frightened cats, leaping the wall near an
adjoining woodland, into the gloom of which they speedily vanished.
It was obvious to Nick that pursuit would be vain, so he hastened to the
side of the fallen man, who had been left prostrate in the road, and
helped him to his feet.
The man was Jean Pylotte.
He was panting hard after the conflict, the fake character of which Nick
could not then foresee. His coat was ripped up the back, his linen
collar torn off, and he was deathly pale, with a smutch of blood across
his cheek.
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