ly across the sky.
Old's was on the very border of the town, and in five minutes Smith
found himself beyond the houses and between the hedges of a May-scented
Oxfordshire lane.

It was a lonely and little frequented road which led to his friend's
house. Early as it was, Smith did not meet a single soul upon his way.
He walked briskly along until he came to the avenue gate, which opened
into the long gravel drive leading up to Farlingford. In front of him he
could see the cosy red light of the windows glimmering through the
foliage. He stood with his hand upon the iron latch of the swinging
gate, and he glanced back at the road along which he had come. Something
was coming swiftly down it.

It moved in the shadow of the hedge, silently and furtively, a dark,
crouching figure, dimly visible against the black background. Even as he
gazed back at it, it had lessened its distance by twenty paces, and was
fast closing upon him. Out of the darkness he had a glimpse of a scraggy
neck, and of two eyes that will ever haunt him in his dreams. He turned,
and with a cry of terror he ran for his life up the avenue. There were
the red lights, the signals of safety, almost within a stone's-throw of
him. He was a famous runner, but never had he run as he ran that night.

The heavy gate had swung into place behind him, but he heard it dash
open again before his pursuer. As he rushed madly and wildly through the
night, he could hear a swift, dry patter behind him, and could see, as
he threw back a glance, that this horror was bounding like a tiger at
his heels, with blazing eyes and one stringy arm out-thrown. Thank God,
the door was ajar. He could see the thin bar of light which shot from
the lamp in the hall. Nearer yet sounded the clatter from behind. He
heard a hoarse gurgling at his very shoulder. With a shriek he flung
himself against the door, slammed and bolted it behind him, and sank
half-fainting on to the hall chair.

"My goodness, Smith, what's the matter?" asked Peterson, appearing at
the door of his study.

"Give me some brandy."

Peterson disappeared, and came rushing out again with a glass and a
decanter.

"You need it," he said, as his visitor drank off what he poured out for
him. "Why, man, you are as white as a cheese."

Smith laid down his glass, rose up, and took a deep breath.

"I am my own man again now," said he. "I was never so unmanned before.
But, with your leave, Peterson, I will sleep here to-night,