Part 50 (1/2)

The footsteps were not those of a policeman. They approached fitfully, now quickly, now slowly, now stopping still for a moment or two, yet they were too agitated for those of a drunkard, and too uncertain for those of a fugitive from justice.

As they drew near to the bridge they stopped once more, and Jeffreys, peering through the darkness, saw a form clutching the railings, and looking down in the direction of the water. Then a voice groaned, ”Oh my G.o.d!” and the footsteps hurried on.

Jeffreys had seen misery in many forms go past him before, but something impelled him now to rise and follow the footsteps of this wanderer.

The plas.h.i.+ng rain drowned every sound, and it was with difficulty that Jeffreys, weak and weary as he was, could keep pace with the figure flitting before him, for after that glance over the bridge the fugitive no longer halted in his pace, but went on rapidly.

Across the bridge he turned and followed the high banks of the ca.n.a.l.

Then he halted, apparently looking for a way down. It was a long impatient search, but at last Jeffreys saw him descend along some railings which sloped down the steep gra.s.s slope almost to the towing- path.

Jeffreys followed with difficulty, and when at last he stood on the towing-path the fugitive was not to be seen, nor was it possible to say whether he had turned right or left.

Jeffreys turned to the right, and anxiously scanning both the bank and the water, tramped along the muddy path.

A few yards down he came upon a heap of stones piled up across the path.

Any one clambering across this must have made noise enough to be heard twenty yards away, and, as far as he could judge in the darkness, no one had stepped upon it. He therefore turned back hurriedly and retraced his steps.

The sullen water, hissing still under the heavy rain, gave no sign as he ran along its edge and scanned it with anxious eyes.

The high bank on his left, beyond the palings, became inaccessible from below. The wanderer must, therefore, be before him on the path.

For five minutes he ran on, straining his eyes and ears, when suddenly he stumbled. It was a hat upon the path.

In a moment Jeffreys dived into the cold water. As he came to the surface and looked round there was nothing but the spreading circles of his own plunge to be seen; but a moment afterwards, close to the bank, he had a glimpse of something black rising for an instant and then disappearing. Three strokes brought him to the spot just as the object rose again.

To seize it and strike out for the bank was the work of a moment. The man--for it was he--was alive, and as Jeffreys slowly drew him from the water he opened his eyes and made a faint resistance.

”Let me go!” he said with an oath; ”let me go!”

But his head fell heavily on his rescuer's shoulder while he spoke, and when at last he lay on the path he was senseless.

Jeffreys carried him to the shelter of an arch, and there did what he could to restore animation. It was too dark to see the man's face, but he could feel his pulse still beating, and presently he gave a sigh and moved his head.

”What did you do it for?” he said piteously.

Jeffreys started. He knew the voice, hoa.r.s.e and choked as it was.

”What's your name?” he said, raising the form in his arms and trying to see the face. ”Who are you?”

”I've got no name! Why couldn't you let me be?”

”Isn't your name Trimble--Jonah Trimble?”

The poor fellow lifted his head with a little shriek.

”Oh, don't give me up! Don't have me taken up! Help me!”

”I will help you all I can, Trimble.”

”Why, you know me, then?--you're--Who are you?”