We could dimly distinguish their figures as they struggled. Save for the crunching of the gravel in the path and their hurried breathing, they made no sound. Over and over, first one on top and then the other, they rolled. The chief and Bartley rushed in to separate them. As Bartley's hand reached the man who for the moment was on top there came Ranville's voice. “Just grab hold of this chap under me, will you?” The chief pulled the other man to his feet as Ranville stood erect. I heard him brushing the dirt from his clothes and then he laughed: “I was coming up this confounded path when that blighter ran smash into me; almost knocked me off my feet. And when I asked him what the rush was, he tried to knock me down. Naturally enough, I decided we'd better have a look at him.” Pushing the man ahead of him, the chief started back to the library, we following him. No one said anything, and whoever the man might be, he kept his mouth shut. Up the steps to the piazza and then through the open door we marched. When we were in the room, the chief whirled the man around to get a look at his face. It needed but one glance to tell who he was. The heavy, dull face turned toward us and filled with fear was that of the man who worked around Warren's grounds. He was a thick-set man whose features at the inquest had not impressed me very highly. No one, looking at him at any time, would have said he was very imposing, either in intelligence or physique; now, with his face streaked with dirt from the path in which he had rolled, and with the blood trickling from a slight cut above his eye, he made a rather sinister appearance. The dark hair was a tangled mass, and his eyes glared at us as he half yelled: “What are you trying to do to me? I ain't done nothing.” “What were you looking through the window for?” growled the chief. Though I was pretty sure that the gardener was the man whose face I had seen at the window a few moments before, yet I was not positive; his next words, however, were a confession: “Suppose I was?” he snarled. “There is no harm in that.” “Maybe not,” retorted the chief. “But you were pretty anxious to get away without being seen.” “You're right there, Officer,” laughed Ranville. “He was running as fast as he could when he banged into me.” Ranville was wearing a light summer suit—a suit remarkable, not only for the fineness of the cloth, but also for the way it was pressed; now it was a mass of wrinkles, stained and soiled from the dirt. But though the face of the Englishman had a dark streak which ran from his eyes to his lips, yet from his manner one would never have thought that only a moment or so before he had been struggling with the gardener.