They came by a path that led past the tower once inhabited by the melancholy Congleton. Jack looked up at it, wondering what sort of place that lonely room at the top was. But Arthur said that the only doorway was strongly barricaded, and Jack was not inclined to waste time in breaking in. Another half-mile brought them to the middle of the Hollow. Jack had not mentioned the incident of two nights before; it would seem too much like prying into De Fronsac’s affairs; but he was thinking of it when a shot rang out from the depths of the copse, followed by a cry. Arthur paused in the act of capturing a belated butterfly. "What’s that, Jack?" "A cry for help! Come on!" He vaulted the wall; after a moment’s hesitation Arthur scrambled over; and they dashed toward the thickest part of the wood, Jack a few yards ahead. Heedless of scratches and tears they pushed through the tangle in the direction of the sounds, and, Jack suddenly finding himself blocked by a thick clump of brambles, Arthur came panting up to him. "Over there, Jack, I think!" he said. "I heard some one moving." He pointed to the left. They listened; there was no sound but the ripple of a tiny stream. "Let’s go on!" said Jack in a whisper, pointing ahead. "’Twas there the sound first came from." He disentangled himself from the bush, not without damage to hands and clothes, and skirting the obstacle, the two pushed still deeper into the wood, dim in spite of the glow of the westering sun. In a few moments they saw through the trees a more brightly-lit patch of ground, and came to an open glade, covered with fern and tall grass run to seed. At the far side stood the ruins of a large timber summer-house, built of logs something like those of the pioneers in America of which Jack had read. It was somewhat dilapidated. But what took his attention immediately was the figure of a man sitting on one of the fallen logs, apparently stanching with a red handkerchief a wound in the head. As the two boys made their appearance at the edge of the glade the man started and tried to rise; but he staggered back with a groan, and continuing clumsily to stanch his wound, eyed them sullenly with uneasy suspicion as they approached. Jack went up to him impulsively. "We heard a shot and a cry. Did you call out?" he asked. "You are hurt. Can we do anything?" The man was an undersized, mean-featured, ill-conditioned looking fellow. He had a low beetling brow, and his cheeks were black with the unshorn growth of several weeks. He was evidently badly hurt, and, villainous though he looked, Jack was eager to aid him. "It is nothing," said the man, in a low and surly tone, with a slight foreign accent. "I am getting better, if only the bleeding would stop!" Jack could see the handkerchief was drenched with blood. "You were shot! Who fired?" he asked. "Ah, who? I want to know. It was all at once. I did not see." "And how did it happen, then?"