Before Nick's reply was fairly uttered, however, both detectives were startled by distant cries, which fell with frantic appeal on the midnight air. "Help! Help! Help!" The startling cry was thrice repeated, the last time as if choked in the speaker's throat, yet the direction of the sound was unmistakable. "Something's up!" muttered Nick. "This way!" With Chick at his heels, he tore across the wooded grounds and bounded over the iron fence at the street. Then the occasion of the outcry at once became apparent. Some two hundred yards away, in the yellow glare of one of the incandescent lights by which the little-frequented street was illumined, a man was battling desperately with three assailants, one of whom he had knocked to the ground. Without a word, both detectives rushed down the road to his assistance. As they drew nearer there came a flash of light, then the report of a pistol, followed by another shriek for help. Then Nick saw one of the ruffians reel a little, as if shot, while a second hurled their victim to the ground. The third leaped to his feet at the same moment, yelling wildly: "Look out! Scatter, boys! The cops are upon us!" "Kilgore's voice, or I'm a liar," muttered Nick, over his shoulder. Both detectives were still fifty yards from the scene of the furious conflict, and were running at the top of their speed along the rough road. Before they could come near enough to use a weapon, however, the three ruffians scattered like frightened cats, leaping the wall near an adjoining woodland, into the gloom of which they speedily vanished. It was obvious to Nick that pursuit would be vain, so he hastened to the side of the fallen man, who had been left prostrate in the road, and helped him to his feet. The man was Jean Pylotte. He was panting hard after the conflict, the fake character of which Nick could not then foresee. His coat was ripped up the back, his linen collar torn off, and he was deathly pale, with a smutch of blood across his cheek. In one hand he held a revolver, and in the other--a chunk of coal. "Are you wounded, stranger?" Nick quickly demanded, as he studied the man's pale face. "Not much--not badly, I think," gasped Pylotte, trembling violently. "But it's lucky you came. They'd surely have killed me." Nick noticed that he spoke with a slight foreign accent, and was a man of considerable physical prowess. "There's blood on your face," said he. "It came from one of them, I think," said Pylotte, drawing his sleeve across his cheek to remove the stain. "I must have wounded one of them." "It's a pity you did not kill him," said Nick, bluntly. "Was it you who fired the gun?" "Yes. I tried to fire again, but one of them struck me down before I could do so. The ruffians came upon me before I fairly realized it." "Do you know them?" inquired Chick. "Only one of them, a man named John David," replied Pylotte, now appearing to pull himself together. "John David, eh?" grunted Nick.