"It rather looks as if Cervera had been here, doesn't it?" inquired Chick, with a grin.

"Yes," admitted Nick. "Two facts are very significant of it. First, that Venner is at home on this particular night; and, second, that he should be asleep in his chair after midnight. It has a fishy look."

"That's my idea, Nick, exactly."

"Yet the way to prove it doesn't appear quite easy."

"Not just yet. But who occupies that house over yonder, where the roof shows above the trees?"

And Chick pointed to the distant dwelling, little dreaming that the diamond plant and the gang they sought were established under its many-gabled roof.

This was not the first night Nick had watched Venner's house since the diamond robbery, the doubtful character of which he had suspected at the outset, and incidentally he had informed himself concerning Venner's neighbors.

"One Dr. Magruder, I am told, a retired physician from Illinois," he replied. "He bought the place at a forced sale some little time ago."

Nor did Nick, when thus replying, dream that Dr. Magruder and Rufus Venner were one and the same; or that, in attributing to him a double life of shameful iniquity, Chick had hit the nail squarely on the head.

"Come this way," added Nick.

"Where now?"

"We'll go down to the corner of the grounds, and watch the house for a time."

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 a.s.sailants, one of whom he had knocked to the ground.

Without a word, both detectives rushed down the road to his a.s.sistance.

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 s.m.u.tch 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.

"He has swindled me, and I--I saw him at a theater to-night, and afterward followed him out here."

"For what? If he has swindled you, why didn't you have him arrested at the theater?" demanded Nick.

"Well, I--I wanted to learn where he lives. He must have discovered that he was being followed, and then tried to do me up."

Nick observed the speaker's faltering manner, and it increased his curiosity.

"Why do you wish to know where he lives?" he demanded.

Pylotte hesitated, and shrugged his shoulders.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," said he, after a moment.

"Not believe you?"

"I hardly think so."

"Suppose you tell me, and see," suggested Nick, with a faint smile.