hollies into the gloom of the pines.
Down in the stream, with the water rippling over his ankles, he stood
and listened.

What to do next? They had not yet discovered the dead man; but it
seemed to him that they would do so in another minute or two. He tried
to think logically, but could not. It seemed now necessary to get
clear away before the body was seen--get as far off as possible.
Vaguely it occurred to him that he should wait here till night, and it
was still only dusk. But then he had a clear vision of the wood at
night--lanterns moving in every direction, men's voices, a cordon of
men all round the wood. Yes, that would be the state of affairs when
they had found the body and were beginning to look for the murderer.
This wood was a death-trap. He forgot the pain in his feet, and began
to run with the long trotting stride of a hunted stag, careless now of
the crash of the bushes and fern as he swung through them.

He paused crouching on the edge of the wood, then came out over the
bank, across a road, and into the fields. With arched back he went
along the deep ditch of the first field, through a gap, and into the
ditch of the next field. To his right lay Vine-Pits Farm; to his left
lay the Cross Roads, the Barradine Arms, the clustered cottages. He
ran on, in ditch after ditch, under hedges and banks, swinging
left-handed in a wide detour till he came to the last of the fields
and the highroad to Old Manninglea.

But he had to wait here. He saw laborers on the road, and waited till
they were gone. Then he crept through the gap where the ditch went
under the road culvert, crossed this second road, and ran stooping on
the open heath.

The sky was red, with terrible clouds; and a wind followed him,
keeping his spine cold, although all the rest of him was burning. When
he looked back he fancied that he saw men moving, and that he heard
distant shoutings from Beacon Hill. Rain fell--not much of it, just
showers, wetting his hands, and mingling with the perspiration in
front, but making him colder behind; and he muttered to cheer himself.
"That's luck. That'll wash away the blood. Yes, that's luck. Yes, I
must take it for a good sign--bit o' luck."

He walked and ran for miles--over the bare downs, through the fertile
valleys, and alongside the other railway line; and late that night he
got into a feeding train for Salisbury, where, he was told, he would
catch a West of England express for London.

There was