Asticot was in a dreadful mess as he lay there on the grass. Vignier, the chauffeur, and a stable lad, Henri, had appeared with a lantern at the _débâcle_ of Monsieur Asticot.
Warner, breathing rapidly, waited a few moments to recover his breath.
"Take him into the harness room and lay him on a blanket," he managed to say. "Keep your eyes on him, Vignier, until I return. There’s another of them, but I’m afraid he’s cleared out."
As a matter of fact, Squelette had cleared out. He must have scaled the wall somewhere, for the gates were locked, and the old lodge keeper was evidently asleep.
The lad, Henri, came up, armed with a stable fork, and followed by the head gardener, Maurice, shouldering a fowling piece and marshaling in his wake half a dozen others—grooms, under-gardeners, and a lad or two employed about the place.
They beat the shrubbery for an hour; then Warner left them to explore the wooded strip along the base of the wall with their flashlights and lanterns, and went back to the stable where lay Asticot, badly in need of bandages and protracted repose.
"Has he come to?" inquired the latter, who had begun to feel a little worried.
"Monsieur Warner, that _voyou_ is a most frightful wreck. Out of neither eye is he able to perceive me; what he wears upon his shoulders does not, to me, resemble a head at all."
"Entirely. He lies upon his blanket and inquires for you at intervals."
"It is true. ’Oh, my mother!’ he whimpers. ’What a horrible beating I have had from that American! Oh, my sister, I am battered into a _boudin_! Ou est-il, donc, ce Monsieur sans remords? I have need of conversing with him. I wish to behold him who has brought me to this pitiable ditch of misery! I do not desire another beating! It is I, Asticot, who informs you!’ And that, Monsieur Warner, is what this _voyou affreux_ continues to repeat in the harness room where I have locked him in. Would Monsieur care to inspect the swine?"
Warner nodded and entered the stable; Vignier fitted a key to the harness room and opened the door.
A lantern burned there brightly. Under it squatted Asticot on his blanket. Neither eye was entirely closed, for there was a ratty glitter under the puffed lids, and he lost no time in whining out that he did not desire to be beaten any more by "that gentleman there"—pointing a shaking finger straight at Warner.