long uphill road, ever climbing to where far off
showed the tiny whitewashed buildings which were the railway station,
seemed interminable this morning. The aged postman addressed strange
objurgations to his aged horse and muttered reflections to himself, the
innkeeper smoked, and Dickson stared back into the misty hollow where
lay Dalquharter. The south-west wind had brought up a screen of rain
clouds and washed all the countryside in a soft wet grey. But the eye
could still travel a fair distance, and Dickson thought he had a
glimpse of a figure on a bicycle leaving the village two miles back.
He wondered who it could be. Not Heritage, who had no bicycle.
Perhaps some woman who was conspicuously late for the train. Women
were the chief cyclists nowadays in country places.

Then he forgot about the bicycle and twisted his neck to watch the
station. It was less than a mile off now, and they had no time to
spare, for away to the south among the hummocks of the bog he saw the
smoke of the train coming from Auchenlochan. The postman also saw it
and whipped up his beast into a clumsy canter. Dickson, always nervous
being late for trains, forced his eyes away and regarded again the road
behind him. Suddenly the cyclist had become quite plain--a little more
than a mile behind--a man, and pedalling furiously in spite of the
stiff ascent. It could only be one person--Leon. He must have
discovered their visit to the House yesterday and be on the way to warn
Dobson. If he reached the station before the train, there would be no
journey to Glasgow that day for one respectable citizen.

Dickson was in a fever of impatience and fright. He dared not abjure
the postman to hurry, lest Dobson should turn his head and descry his
colleague. But that ancient man had begun to realize the shortness of
time and was urging the cart along at a fair pace, since they were now
on the flatter shelf of land which carried the railway.

Dickson kept his eyes fixed on the bicycle and his teeth shut tight on
his lower lip. Now it was hidden by the last dip of hill; now it
emerged into view not a quarter of a mile behind, and its rider gave
vent to a shrill call. Luckily the innkeeper did not hear, for at that
moment with a jolt the cart pulled up at the station door, accompanied
by the roar of the incoming train.

Dickson whipped down from the back seat and seized the solitary porter.
"Label the box for Glasgow and into the van with it,