The light fell on the flushed face and fair beard of the sergeant. He
was bare-headed, and his hair dishevelled. Burleigh entered the room and
gazed eagerly at the half-insensible man on the floor-a short, thick-set
fellow with a white, dirty face and a black moustache. His lip was cut
and bled down his neck. Burleigh glanced furtively at the table. The
cloth had come off in the struggle, and was now in the place where he had
left Fletcher.

"Hot work, sir," said the sergeant, with a smile. "It's fortunate we
were handy."

The prisoner raised a heavy head and looked up with unmistakable terror
in his eyes.

"All right, sir," he said, trembling, as the constable increased the
pressure of his knee. "I 'ain't been in the house ten minutes
altogether. By ---, I've not."

The sergeant regarded him curiously.

"It don't signify," he said, slowly; "ten minutes or ten seconds won't
make any difference."

The man shook and began to whimper.

"It was 'ere when I come," he said, eagerly; "take that down, sir. I've
only just come, and it was 'ere when I come. I tried to get away then,
but I was locked in."

"What was?" demanded the sergeant.