nce he would be visible as long as he
stood up, he could find out whether they were looking for him or not.
They came nearer and then vanished, and he sat down and speculated
about his line of retreat. Their disappearance was suspicious, and
although he thought he could baffle the rural police, it would be
different if he had gamekeepers to deal with.

By and by the men reappeared, but as they did not seem anxious to cover
their movements he felt relieved. It was possible that they had come
to mend a fence or look for some sheep. For all that, he drew back
among the hummocks, and looked for hollows where he would have a
background for his figure as he resumed his march. He saw no more of
the men and by and by came to a burn, which he followed to lower
ground, where he found the road Pete had told him about.

It led him up and down hill, and now and then the track was faint,
while when he crossed the last ridge the light was fading. Motionless
gray clouds stretched across the sky, which glimmered with pale saffron
in the west. Rounded hills, stained a deep blue, cut against the
light, and a trail of gauzy vapor hung about a distant hollow. Since
there was no mist on the moors, he knew it was the smoke of Hawick
mills.

As he went down, stone dykes began to straggle up the hill. The fields
they enclosed were rushy and dotted with whinns, but they got smoother
and presently he came to stubble and belts of plowing. Then he turned
into a good road and saw rows of lights that got gradually brighter in
the valley ahead. It had been dark some time when he entered Hawick,
and the damp air was filled with a thin, smoky haze. Factory windows
glimmered in the haze and tall chimneys loomed above the houses. The
bustle of the town fell pleasantly but strangely on his ears after the
silence of the moors.

Reaching a hotel that looked comfortable, he went in, ordered dinner,
and provisionally booked a room, though he did not register and
explained that he could not tell yet if he would stay all night. Then,
leaving his knapsack, he went into the street and stopped by a bridge
where three roads met. A guide-post indicated that one led to Selkirk,
and the map had shown Foster that this was the way to Peebles and
Yarrow. Another ran up the waterside to Langholm and the south.

Foster lighted a cigarette and drawing his maimed hand into the sleeve
of his mackintosh, leaned against the side of the bridge and watched
the