This path, as he should have remembered, knowing the terrain as he did, was a terrace path, set high above the shrubberies below. It was a simple enough matter to negotiate it in daylight and at a gentle stroll, but to race successfully along it in the dark required a Blondin. Hugo's third stride took him well into the abyss. He clutched out desperately, grasped only cool Worcestershire night air, and then, rolling down the slope, struck his head with great violence against a tree which seemed to have been put there for the purpose. When the sparks had cleared away and the firework exhibition was over, he rose painfully to his feet. A voice was speaking from above--the voice of Ronald Overbury Fish. "Hullo!" said the voice. "What's up?" VI Weighed down by the burden of his many sorrows, Ronnie Fish had come to this terrace path to be alone. Solitude was what he desired, and solitude was what he supposed he had got until, abruptly, without any warning but a wild shout, the companion of his school and university days had suddenly dashed out from empty space and apparently attempted to commit suicide. Ronnie was surprised. Naturally no fellow likes getting the bird at a village concert, but Hugo, he considered, in trying to kill himself was adopting extreme measures. He peered down, going so far in his natural emotion as to remove the cigarette holder from his mouth. "What's up?" he asked again. Hugo was struggling dazedly up the bank. "Was that you, Ronnie?" "Was what me?" "That." "Which?" Hugo approached the matter from another angle. "Did you see anyone?" "When?" "Just now. I thought I saw someone on the path. It must have been you." "It was. Why?" "I thought it was somebody else." "Well, it wasn't." "I know, but I thought it was." "Who did you think it was?" "A fellow called Twist." "Twist?" "Yes, Twist." "Why?" "I've been chasing him." "Chasing Twist?" "Yes. I caught him burgling the house." They had been walking along, and now reached a spot where the light, freed from overhanging branches, was stronger. Mr. Fish became aware that his friend had sustained injuries. "I say," he said, "you've hurt your head." "I know I've hurt my head, you silly ass." "It's bleeding, I mean." "Bleeding?" "Bleeding." Blood is always interesting. Hugo put a hand to his wound, took it away again, inspected it. "By Jove! I'm bleeding." "Yes, bleeding. You'd better go in and have it seen to." "Yes," Hugo reflected. "I'll go and get old John to fix it. He once put six stitches in a cow." "What cow?" "One of the cows. I forget its name." "Where do we find this John?" "He's in his room over the stables." "Can you walk it all right?" "Oh yes, rather," Ronnie, relieved, lighted a cigarette, and approached an aspect of the affair which had been giving him food for thought. "I say, Hugo, have you been having a few drinks or anything?" "What do you mean?"