Macheson leaned over the gate. He would have preferred not to disclose himself, but as the man pa.s.sed, he was stricken with a sudden consciousness that for him the events of the night were not yet over.

This was no villager; he had not even the appearance of an Englishman.

He was short and inclined to be thick-set, his coat collar was turned up, and a tweed cap was drawn down to his eyes. He walked with uneven footsteps and muttered to himself words that sounded like words of prayer, only they were in some foreign language. Macheson accosted him.

"Hullo!" he said. "Have you lost your way?"

The man cried out and then stood still, trembling on the roadside. He turned a white, scared face to where Macheson was leaning against the gate.

"Who is that?" he cried. "What do you want with me?"

Macheson stepped into the lane.

"Nothing at all," he answered rea.s.suringly. "I simply thought that you might have lost your way. These are lonely parts."

The newcomer drew a step nearer. He displayed a small ragged beard, a terror-stricken face, and narrow, very bright eyes. His black clothes were soaked and splashed with mud.

"I want a railway station," he said rapidly. "Where is the nearest?"

Macheson pointed into the valley.

"Just where you see that light burning," he answered, "but there will be no trains till the morning."

"Then I must walk," the man declared feverishly. "How far is it to Nottingham?"

"Twenty-five miles," Macheson answered.

"Too far! And Leicester?"

"Twelve, perhaps! But you are walking in the wrong direction."

The man turned swiftly round.

"Point towards Leicester," he said. "I shall find my way."

Macheson pointed across the trees.

"You can't miss it," he declared. "Climb the hill till you get to a road with telegraph wires. Turn to the left, and you will walk into Leicester."

For some reason the stranger seemed to be occupied in looking earnestly into Macheson's face.

"What are you doing here?" he asked abruptly.

"I am close to where I am staying," Macheson answered. "Just in the wood there."

The man took a quick step forwards and then reeled. His hand flew to his side. He was attacked by sudden faintness and would have fallen, but for Macheson's outstretched arm.

"G.o.d!" he muttered, "it is finished."

He was obviously on the verge of a collapse. Macheson dragged him into the shelter and poured brandy between his teeth. He revived a little and tried to rise.

"I must go on," he cried. "I dare not stay here."

The terror in his face was unmistakable. Macheson looked at him gravely.

"You had better stay where you are till morning," he said. "You are not in a fit state to travel."

The man had raised himself upon one arm. He looked wildly about him.

"Where am I?" he demanded. "What is this place?"

"It is a gamekeeper's shelter," Macheson answered, "which I am making use of for a few days. You are welcome to stay here until the morning."

"I must go on," the man moaned. "I am afraid."

Almost as he uttered the words he fell back, and went off immediately into an uneasy doze. Macheson threw his remaining rug over the prostrate figure, and, lighting his pipe, strolled out into the spinney. The man's coming filled him with a vague sense of trouble. He seemed so utterly out of keeping with the place, he represented an alien and undesirable note--a note almost of tragedy. All the time in his broken sleep he was muttering to himself. Once or twice he cried out in terror, once especially--Macheson turned round to find him sitting up on the rug, his brown eyes full of wild fear, and the perspiration running down his face. A stream of broken words flowed from his lips. Macheson thrust him back on the rug.

"Go to sleep," he said. "There is nothing to be afraid of."

After that the man slept more soundly. Macheson himself dozed for an hour until he was awakened by the calling of the birds. Directly he opened his eyes he knew that something had happened to him. It was not only the music of the birds--there was a strange new music stirring in his heart. The pearly light in the eastern sky had never seemed so beautiful; never, surely, had the sunlight streamed down upon so perfect a corner of the earth. And then, with a quick rush of blood to his cheeks, he remembered what it was that had so changed the world. He lived again through that bewildering moment, again he felt the delicious warmth of her presence, the touch of her hair as it had brushed his cheek, the soft pa.s.sionate pressure of her lips against his. It was like an episode from a fairy story, there was something so delicate, so altogether fanciful in that flying visit. Something, too, so unbelievable when he thought of her as the mistress of Thorpe, the languid, insolent woman of the world who had treated him so coldly.

Then a movement behind reminded him of his strange visitor. He turned round. The man was already on his feet. He looked better for his sleep, but the wild look was still in his eyes.

"I must go," he said. "I ought to have started before. Thank you for your shelter."

Macheson reached out for his spirit lamp.

"Wait a few minutes," he said, "and I will have some coffee ready."

The man hesitated. He looked sorely in need of something of the sort. As he came to the opening of the shelter, the trembling seized him again.

He looked furtively out as though he feared the daylight. The sunshine and the bright open day seemed to terrify him.

"I ought to have gone on last night," he muttered. "I must----"

He broke off his sentence. Macheson, too, had turned his head to listen.

"What is that?" he asked sharply.

"The baying of dogs," Macheson answered.

"Dogs! What dogs?" he demanded.

"Colonel Harvey's bloodhounds!"

The man's face was ashen now to the lips. He clutched Macheson's arm frantically.

"They are after me!" he exclaimed. "Where can I hide? Tell me quick!"

Macheson looked at him gravely.