ysician from Illinois," he
replied. "He bought the place at a forced sale some little time ago."

Nor did Nick, when thus replying, dream that Dr. Magruder and Rufus
Venner were one and the same; or that, in attributing to him a double
life of shameful iniquity, Chick had hit the nail squarely on the head.

"Come this way," added Nick.

"Where now?"

"We'll go down to the corner of the grounds, and watch the house for a
time."

Before Nick's reply was fairly uttered, however, both detectives were
startled by distant cries, which fell with frantic appeal on the
midnight air.

"Help! Help! Help!"

The startling cry was thrice repeated, the last time as if choked in the
speaker's throat, yet the direction of the sound was unmistakable.

"Something's up!" muttered Nick. "This way!"

With Chick at his heels, he tore across the wooded grounds and bounded
over the iron fence at the street.

Then the occasion of the outcry at once became apparent.

Some two hundred yards away, in the yellow glare of one of the
incandescent lights by which the little-frequented street was illumined,
a man was battling desperately with three assailants, one of whom he
had knocked to the ground.

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 c