and the branch in front of
him. Afterwards, he confessed that this moment was the most difficult.
He was an active boy, but he had never jumped such a chasm. If he
missed the bough----

To hesitate meant shameful retreat. John felt the sweat break upon
him; craven fear clutched his heart-strings, and set them a-jangling.

He jumped.

The ease with which he caught the branch was such a physical relief
that he almost forgot his errand. He slid quietly down the tree,
pausing as he reached the bottom of it. The moon was just rising above
the horizon, but under the trees the darkness was Stygian. John pushed
quietly through the shrubberies, treading as lightly as possible.
Every moment he expected to see the flash of a lantern, to hear Warde's
voice, to feel an arresting hand upon the shoulder. It was quite
impossible to guess with any reasonable accuracy what part of the
garden Warde had selected for a hiding-place. Very soon he reached the
edge of the shrubbery, and gazed keenly into the moonlit, park-like
meadow below him. Peer as he might, he could see no trace of Warde. A
dozen trees might conceal him. Perhaps with the omniscience of the
house-master, he had divined that the wicket-gate was the ultimate
place of egress. Perhaps the wicket had been used for a similar
purpose when Warde himself was a boy at the Manor. It was vital to
John's plan that Warde should see him without recognizing him, and give
chase. The chase would end in capture at some point as reasonably far
from the Manor as possible. Warde might ask for explanations, but none
would be forthcoming till the morrow. Meantime, the coast would be
clear for Desmond. John, in fine, was playing the part of a
pilot-engine.

But where was Warde?

The question answered itself within a minute, and after a fashion
absolutely unforeseen. As John was crossing from the shrubbery to the
wicket he looked back. To his horror, he saw lights in the boys' side,
light in the window of Scaife's room. Instantly John divined what had
come to pass, and cursed himself for a fool. Warde, from some coign of
vantage, had seen a boy leave his house. Why should he try to arrest
the boy? why should he risk the humiliation of running after him, and,
perhaps, failing to capture him? No, no; men forty were not likely to
work in that boyish fashion. Warde had adopted an infinitely better
plan. Assured that a boy had left the house, he had nothing to do but
wal