“Well, sir, it was a kind of a cry out yonder as if some one ’ad got ’imself into trouble. I thought, maybe, two sparks were fightin’, and I took no partic’lar notice.” “Where did it come from?” “From the side road, yonder.” “Was it distant?” “No, sir; I should say it didn’t come from more’n two hundred yards.” “A single cry?” “Well, it was a kind of screech, sir, and then I ’eard somebody drivin’ very ’ard down the road. I remember thinking that it was strange that any one should be driving away from Crawley on a great night like this.” My uncle seized the lantern from the fellow’s hand, and we all trooped behind him down the lane. At the further end the road cut it across at right angles. Down this my uncle hastened, but his search was not a long one, for the glaring light fell suddenly upon something which brought a groan to my lips and a bitter curse to those of Jem Belcher. Along the white surface of the dusty highway there was drawn a long smear of crimson, while beside this ominous stain there lay a murderous little pocket-bludgeon, such as Warr had described in the morning. CHAPTER XVI. CRAWLEY DOWNS. ALL through that weary night my uncle and I, with Belcher, Berkeley Craven, and a dozen of the Corinthians, searched the country side for some trace of our missing man, but save for that ill-boding splash upon the road not the slightest clue could be obtained as to what had befallen him. No one had seen or heard anything of him, and the single cry in the night of which the ostler told us was the only indication of the tragedy which had taken place. In small parties we scoured the country as far as East Grinstead and Bletchingley, and the sun had been long over the horizon before we found ourselves back at Crawley once more with heavy hearts and tired feet. My uncle, who had driven to Reigate in the hope of gaining some intelligence, did not return until past seven o’clock, and a glance at his face gave us the same black news which he gathered from ours. We held a council round our dismal breakfast-table, to which Mr. Berkeley Craven was invited as a man of sound wisdom and large experience in matters of sport. Belcher was half frenzied by this sudden ending of all the pains which he had taken in the training, and could only rave out threats at Berks and his companions, with terrible menaces as to what he would do when he met them. My uncle sat grave and thoughtful, eating nothing and drumming his fingers upon the table, while my heart was heavy within me, and I could have sunk my face into my hands and burst into tears as I thought how powerless I was to aid my friend. Mr. Craven, a fresh-faced, alert man of the world, was the only one of us who seemed to preserve both his wits and his appetite. “Let me see! The fight was to be at ten, was it not?” he asked. “It was to be.” “I dare say it will be, too. Never say die, Tregellis! Your man has still three hours in which to come back.” My uncle shook his head.