They jumped from their horses and
ran to him. He was unconscious, and could, of course, give them
no account of how he came to be in his present state. The fronts
of all the houses were dark, the doors shut; there was nothing to
connect the man stretched on the ground with either No. 19 or any
other dwelling. Moreover, the constables were not sure that the
sufferer was himself a meritorious object, for his hand still
held a long, ugly knife. They were perplexed: they were but two;
there was a wounded man to look after; there were three men to
pursue, and the three had fled in three separate directions. They
looked up at No. 19; No. 19 remained dark, quiet, absolutely
indifferent. The fugitives were out of sight. Rudolf Rassendyll,
hearing nothing, had started again on his way. But a minute later
he heard a shrill whistle. The patrol were summoning assistance;
the man must be carried to the station, and a report made; but
other constables might be warned of what had happened, and
despatched in pursuit of the culprits. Rudolf heard more than one
answering whistle; he broke into a run, looking for a turning on
the left that would take him back into the direction of my house,
but he found none.
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