When he had been a few days at the Garth, Foster thought he had better take Carmen's packet to Edinburgh. She had said nothing about its being urgent and he did not want to go, but he must keep his promise and would afterwards be at liberty. Mrs. Featherstone had given him to understand that he was to make the Garth his headquarters as long as he stayed in England, and he looked forward to doing so with much content. The more he saw of his hosts, the better he liked them, and it was a privilege to enjoy Alice Featherstone's friendship. She had, of course, given it him for her brother's sake, but he must try to keep it on his merits.

Since he had seen Alice he began to understand Carmen better. Carmen had charm and knew how to use it to her advantage, while he could not imagine Alice's employing her beauty to gain an object. She was proud, with an essentially clean pride, and sincere, while Carmen had a talent for intrigue. The latter enjoyed using her cleverness to put down a rival or secure a prominent place; she was a hustler, as they said in the West. Alice, he thought, would not even claim what was hers; it must be willingly offered or she would let it go. Yet he knew she would be a staunch and generous friend to anybody who gained her confidence.

This kind of comparison, however, was profitless and perhaps in bad taste. After all, he was a friend of Carmen's and must do her errand. He left the Garth next morning, and Featherstone, who made him promise to come back as soon as possible, drove him across the moors to a small station on the North British line, where he caught an Edinburgh train.

When they ran out of the hills at Hawick, rain was falling and the valley filled with smoky haze, through which loomed factories and chimney stacks. The station was crowded, and Foster gathered from the talk of the people who got in that a big wool sale was going on and the townsfolk who were not at the auction made it a holiday. His compartment was full, but looking through the window he saw a fashionably dressed girl hurrying along the platform with a porter. They tried one or two carriages, in which there seemed to be no room, and the guard had blown his whistle when they came abreast of Foster's compartment. Opening the door as the train began to move, he held out his hand and pulled the girl in.

"My bag; it mustn't be left!" she cried, trying to get back to the door, but Foster caught the bag as the porter held it up and put it on the rack.

"There's a seat in the corner," he said and went into the corridor.

When they stopped at Galashiels a number of people got out, and he returned to the compartment. It was now unoccupied except by an old man and the girl he had helped, who gave him a grateful smile.

"I hadn't time to thank you, but I should have missed the train if you had not been prompt," she said.

Foster did not know if Scottish etiquette warranted anything more than a conventional reply, but he ventured to remark: "You certainly seemed to have cut things rather fine."

"I had to drive some distance and the hill roads were bad; then when we got to the town the streets were crowded."

"That would be sae," the old man agreed. "Hawick's gey thrang at the wool sales when the yarn trade is guid."

Foster liked to talk to strangers and as the girl had not rebuffed him, he took her cloak, which looked very wet, from the rack.

"Perhaps I'd better shake this in the corridor and then we can hang it up," he said.

She allowed him to do so and the old man remarked:

"Guid gear's worth the saving, and I was thinking it would be nane the waur o' a bit shake, but if ye had leeved to my age among the mosses, ye'd no' find yereself sae soople."

"Any kind of gear's worth taking care of."

"That's true," agreed the other. "A verra praise-worthy sentiment, if ye practice it. But I wouldna' say ye were a Scot."

"In a sense, I'm a Canadian, but from what I've seen of the Ontario Scots the difference isn't very marked. Anyhow, they don't buy new material until the old's worn out."

The man chuckled, but Foster thought the girl looked interested.

"Then you come from Canada," she said. "Do you know any of the Ontario cities?"

"I have been in Toronto, but I know the small towns near the Manitoba border best. In fact, I left an ambitious place called Gardner's Crossing about fourteen days ago."

From the quick glance she gave him he imagined that she had heard of the town, but she said, "I have some friends in Ontario and understand that they have had what they call a set-back there. Did this extend to the neighborhood you came from?"

Foster told her something about the development of the lumber trade and mining, but although he had hardly expected her to be interested he thought she was, and the old man's shrewd remarks helped the conversation along.

"Isn't the Crossing where the big factory is? I forget the name of it," she asked by and by.

"Hulton's," said Foster, and afterwards thought she tactfully encouraged him to talk about the manufacturing firm, although he did not mention Fred Hulton's death. Her manner, however, was quite correct; he had been of some small help, which warranted her conversing with him to pass the time. That was all, and when their companion got out and she opened a book he went to the smoking-compartment.

When he left the train at the Waverley station he saw her on the platform and she gave him a slight bow, but he understood that their acquaintance ended there and was content. After lunch he walked along, Princes Street and back to the castle. The sky was clear, the sun shone on the old tall houses, and a nipping north-easter blew across the Forth. In spite of its age and modern industry, the town looked strangely clean and cold. No smoke could hang about it in the nipping wind; its prevailing color was granite-gray. The Forth was a streak of raw indigo, and the hills all round were steely blue. Edinburgh was like no English town; it had an austere half-classical beauty that was peculiar to itself; perhaps Quebec, though different, resembled it most of all the cities he had seen.

Then he remembered Carmen's packet, and after asking a passer-by took a tram-car that carried him through the southern quarter of the town into a wide road, lined by well-built stone houses. Standing in small, neat gardens, they ran back to the open country, with a bold ridge of moors in the distance. Foster got down where he was directed and crossed the road to one of the houses. They were all much alike and he thought hinted at the character of their occupants. One would expect to find the people who lived there prosperous citizens with sober, conventional habits.

He went up a short, tiled path and rang the bell. A smart maid-servant showed him into a small, morning-room, where everything was very neat, and after a few moments a man came in. He was the kind of man Foster had expected to find in such a house, well-dressed, with polite but rather formal manners, and Foster briefly stated his business. He thought the man looked at him sharply, but it was about four o'clock in the afternoon and the light was not good.

"Mr. Graham does not live here now; he left a week or two ago," he said. "Do you know him personally?"

"No," said Foster. "Miss Austin asked me to give him the packet."

"Then you know Mr. Austin."

"In a way," said Foster, smiling. "We speak when we meet on the street, but don't get much further. In fact, Austin's a business rival of mine."

The man seemed to ponder for a moment or two. Then he said, "I gather that you want to deliver the packet, not to post it?"

"That's so. I don't know if it matters much, but I'd like to put it in Graham's hands."

"Very well. He's gone to Newcastle, but I have his address somewhere. If you will wait a minute or two, I'll look."

He took the packet, as if he meant to write the address on it, and Foster sat down. The door of the room was half open and while he waited somebody entered the house. Steps came along the hall, and a girl pushed the door back, and then stopped, looking at him in surprise. He understood this as he saw she was the girl he had helped into the train.

"I didn't know you were coming here," she said.

"Nor did I, in a sense," Foster answered with a smile. "I mean I didn't know it was your house."

"My name was on the label of the bag and rather conspicuous."

"It would have meant nothing if I had seen it. In fact, I must own I don't know it now."

The girl looked puzzled, and Foster explained that he had come with a packet, but had merely been given Graham's name and the number of the house. He added that he had found he must look for the man in Newcastle.

"Then you are a friend of Mr. Austin's?" she said.

Foster thought it strange that she had not told him she knew Austin when she asked about the Crossing, but he replied: "I'm a friend of Miss Austin's."

"Ah!" she said thoughtfully; "do you mind explaining what you mean by that?"

"Perhaps it's hardly worth while, but I can't claim that Austin and I are particularly friendly. Our business interests sometimes clash."

She was silent for a few moments, and he wondered why both she and the man had been curious to know how far his acquaintance with Austin went. Then she looked up with a quick movement. "Newcastle is not a charming town, and if you have no other reason for going there, it might be better to post the packet."

Foster was somewhat puzzled. She had spoken meaningly, as if she meant to give him a hint.

"The trouble is that I promised Miss Austin to deliver it."

"You have brought it to England," she persisted. "It will be safe in the post———"

She stopped with a glance at the door, and Foster heard a step in the passage. Then she quietly turned to the man who had taken the packet.

"I would have missed the train at Hawick but for this gentleman's help," she said. "Still, I did not know he was coming here until I saw him as I passed the door."

The other, who had looked at her rather sharply, nodded and gave Foster the packet.

"As there was room enough, I wrote the new address on the cover."

Foster thanked him and took his leave, but as the man went before him to the door the girl made a sign.

"Post it," she whispered and turned back into the room.

After leaving the house Foster walked along the road in a thoughtful mood. The girl was apparently the man's daughter or niece. Their relative ages warranted the surmise, and her quick explanation of how she came to be talking to a stranger indicated that she recognized his authority, while Foster thought she had been disturbed when she heard his step. It was strange that she should urge him to post the packet, and he would sooner have done so, but it was not a long journey to Newcastle and he must keep his promise. Then he saw a tram-car coming and dismissed the matter.

Going back to his hotel, he found there was an evening train and decided to leave by it. Edinburgh had attractions, but he could come back and was anxious to get rid of the packet, moreover he grudged the time he spent away from the Garth. There were not many passengers at the station and he found an empty compartment, where he read a newspaper until he got tired and lifting a corner of the blind looked out. Here and there a light rushed back through the darkness and vanished as the express sped south with a smoothness that was a contrast to the jolting he had been used to in Canada. Indeed, except for the roar when they ran across a bridge and the confused flashing past of lamps as they swept through a station, he could hardly have imagined himself on board a train. There was, however, not much to be seen, and he took out the packet.

It looked somewhat bulkier and he examined it carefully, but the cover did not seem to have been removed. It could not have been replaced by another, because the original address was there and he knew Carmen's hand; then there was a seal, which he did not think could have been tampered with. Besides, the man had only had it for a minute or two, and if he had opened it, would probably have taken something out instead of putting something in. Foster decided that he was mistaken about its size and returned it to his pocket.

Then he wanted a cigarette and took out the case he had got in the fur coat. Since he had left the coat in Montreal, the case was the only record of his adventure on the train, and he wondered whether he would ever be able to restore it to its owner and speculated languidly about the man. As the latter knew his name, it was strange that he had not communicated with him at the Windsor, as he had promised. He had obviously not been attacked, because there had been nothing about it in the Canadian newspapers. The thing was puzzling, but after all it did not concern Foster much and he thought about something else.

It was late when he arrived at Newcastle and went to an hotel. There was fog and rain next morning, and he saw very little of the town, which seemed filled with smoke. Taking a tram-car that carried him past rows of dingy buildings and shops where lights twinkled, he got out at the corner of a narrow street that ran back into the haze. After looking at the address on the packet, he plunged into the gloom beside a row of tall, sooty buildings. There was no pavement, and here and there a cart stood beneath an opening in the wall. The buildings were apparently warehouses, but some of the doors had brass plates and lights shone in the upper windows. By and by he found the number he wanted and entered a dirty arch, inside which a few names were painted on the wall. Graham's was not there, but he went up the steps to inquire at the first office he reached.

The lower stories were used as a warehouse and he came to the top landing before he saw a name that seemed to be Danish or Scandinavian painted on a door. Going in, he knocked on the counter. The office was small and shabby and smelt of bacon, which he thought indicated that its occupant dealt in provisions, but he could not see much because of a glass partition. When he was getting impatient, an old man came to the counter.

"Can you tell me if there's a Mr. Graham in this building?" Foster asked.

"Yes, he's here," said the other. "What do you want?"

Foster said he had brought a packet from Canada, and the old man, who looked rather hard at him, lifted a flap in the counter and told him to pass through. A door in the partition opened as he advanced and another man beckoned him to come in. It looked as if the latter had heard what had passed, but this saved an explanation and Foster, who asked if he was Graham, put the packet on a table. There was not much else in the small, dusty room, except a cupboard fitted with pigeon-holes, a desk, and a safe.

"This is from Miss Austin of Gardner's Crossing," he remarked.

Graham glanced at the packet carelessly, as if he did not consider it of much importance, and Foster felt puzzled. The fellow was not as old as Carmen's father, but Foster thought there was nothing about him that would attract a girl used to admiration, as Carmen was. He was certainly not handsome and had, on the whole, a commonplace look, while he was obviously in a small way of business.

"Thank you," he said. "It seems you have been to Edinburgh. We had a branch there, but closed it recently. Newcastle has more facilities for importing our goods. I'm afraid you have been put to some trouble."

Foster replied that he did not mind this, since he had promised Miss Austin to bring the packet and she was a friend of his, but although he studied the man's face saw nothing to indicate that he was interested.

"Are you staying here?" he asked, and when Foster told him that he was going back as soon as he could, resumed: "If you had been staying, I would have been glad to take you about the town; but, after all, there's nothing much in the way of amusement going on. I might arrange to meet you in the afternoon, but must now finish some letters for the Continental mail."

Foster said he could not wait and went out, feeling that the other was pleased to get rid of him. Graham was obviously a small importer of provisions, and he could not see why the girl in Edinburgh had warned him to post the packet. Carmen's reason for sending such a man something she valued was impossible to discern.

This, however, was not Foster's business, and after lunch he caught a train to Hexham and, finding he could get no farther, spent the night in the old Border town.



VIII

AN OFFER OF HELP

It rained and the light was going when Foster sat in a window seat of the library at the Garth. He was alone, but did not mind this. The Featherstones treated him as one of the family; he was free to do what he liked, and Alice had just gone away, after talking to him for half an hour. Lighting a cigarette, he mused and looked about.

Outside, the firs rose, black and dripping, above the wet drive. Between their trunks he saw the river, stained with peat, brawling among the stones, and the streaks of foam that stretched across a coffee-colored pool. Then a few boggy fields ran back into the mist that hung about the hills. A red fire threw a soft glow about the library. The room was somewhat shabby but spacious. Rows of old books in stained bindings, which Foster thought nobody read, faded into the gloom at its other end. It was warm and quiet, and he found it a comfortable retreat.

He had now been a fortnight at the Garth and did not want to leave. Featherstone and his wife obviously wished him to stay; he was grateful for the welcome they had given him, and felt as if he belonged to the place. What Alice thought was not clear, but she treated him with a quiet friendliness that he found singularly pleasant. By and by he began to wonder why Lawrence had not written, particularly as he had brought away a bag of his. Foster had one like it, and as both had its owner's initials stamped outside, he imagined the baggage agent had been deceived by the F when he affixed the check. Lawrence's bag, however, had his name engraved upon the lock.

Foster sat down in a big chair by the fire, and imagined he fell asleep, because it had got nearly dark without his noticing it when the opening of the door roused him. Looking up, he saw Featherstone come in with a letter in his hand. The post did not arrive until the afternoon.

"Ah!" he said, "you have heard from Lawrence."

"No, but the letter is about him," Featherstone replied, and sitting down opposite, was silent for a few moments. His pose was slack and he looked as if he had got a shock.

"I don't see how you can help, but perhaps you had better know how matters are," he resumed and gave the letter to Foster.

It was short, but Foster, who was surprised and disturbed, understood his host's alarm. Daly had written from Hexham, asking, or rather summoning, Featherstone to meet him there next day, although he stated that if this was impossible, he would arrive at the Garth in the evening. There was a threat in the intimation that it would be to Lawrence's advantage if Featherstone saw him soon.

"Well," said Foster dryly, "it looks as if our plot had succeeded better than we thought. We certainly didn't expect the fellow would follow me to England."

Featherstone did not seem to understand, and Foster remembered that, with the object of saving him anxiety, he had said nothing about Daly's having extorted money from Lawrence in Canada. He now explained the situation in as few words as possible.

"But Lawrence ought to have told me!" Featherstone exclaimed.

"I don't know that it would have been of much use. You see, Lawrence meant to put Daly off the track, and if he failed in this, to fight. When I heard of it, I quite agreed."

"But he can't fight," Featherstone objected in a strained voice. "I'd have urged him to do so, if it had been possible. We're not cowards."

"Why is it impossible?"

"Don't you know?" Featherstone asked with some surprise.

"I know my partner's in trouble; that's all."

Featherstone hesitated, as if he wanted to take the other into his confidence, but shrank from doing so. Then he said with forced quietness: "If this rogue knows as much as I suspect, he can get my son arrested."

"On a serious charge? I don't ask what it is."

"It would mean a long imprisonment, to say nothing of the humiliation," Featherstone answered brokenly, and was silent for a minute with the firelight on his tense face. Then he went on with an effort: "I must tell you what I can. Lawrence in a desperate moment injured, I had better call it robbed, a relative of ours. The boy had got into difficulties, but hitherto, although he had been a fool, there was a certain generosity in his rashness. He was very hard pressed—I have seen that since—but I can make no excuse for what he did."

"He made good afterwards," Foster interposed.

"We tried to think so, but it looks as if one can't make good. The punishment for a wrong done, or consented to, must be borne. Well, when I learned the truth I went to the man my son had robbed and offered to repay him. He said he would take no money, for reasons that I ought to grasp, and sent me away afraid, because I knew he was hard and very just."

Featherstone paused, and Foster, who murmured a few words of awkward sympathy, waited until he resumed; "I am a magistrate, pledged to do my duty, but I helped my boy to escape, and the man I was afraid of did nothing, though he knew. After a time, I went to him again, and he gave me to understand that he would not interfere so long as Lawrence stayed away, but must be free to take the proper line if he came back. It's plain now that he knew my son's faults and meant to give him the chance of overcoming them by hard work in Canada. At last, when he was very ill, he sent for me and said I could let Lawrence know he was forgiven."

"Ah!" said Foster, "now I understand what my partner meant."

"This was not long before you came," Featherstone continued. "It was a wonderful relief to know the danger was over, and then you told us how Lawrence had grown out of his folly and become a useful man. Although we longed to see him, our satisfaction was complete. Now this letter comes, and I fear my wife is unable to bear the strain again."

Foster was moved by his distress. Featherstone was proud and honorable, and it must have cost him much to help his son to steal away. Indeed, Foster thought what he had done then would always trouble him, and after all it had proved useless. The worst was that his sensitive uprightness might make him an easy victim of the unscrupulous adventurer. But Foster did not mean him to be victimized. As a rule, he was rather humorous than dramatic, but he got up and stood with his hands clenched.

"This thing touches us both, sir. Lawrence is your son, but he's my friend, and I've got to see him through, which warrants my giving you the best advice I can. Very well, you must show a bold front to Daly; to begin with you can't go to Hexham."

Featherstone gave him a grateful glance. He felt dejected and desperate, but Foster looked comfortingly resolute. At first he had welcomed him for his son's sake, but had come to like him for himself.

"No," he agreed. "I can't go; but that doesn't help us; because he'll come here."

"Yes; he must be met. But do you know how he came to learn about the matter?"

"I don't, but my relative, who was interested in politics and social schemes, had a secretary. I can't remember his name, but this might be the fellow."

"Then it's curious he didn't get on Lawrence's track before. Anyway, he must be met with the bluff direct now."

"How can he be bluffed?" Featherstone asked with a hopeless gesture. "He can have my son arrested if I don't agree to his demands."

"He would first have to tell the police all he knew, and as soon as he did this his hold on you would be gone. Then they'd ask why he'd kept the secret, which would be remarkably hard to answer, although he might perhaps take the risk out of malice if he saw you meant to be firm. For all that, you must be firm; you can't buy him off. He'd come back later with a fresh demand. Would your estate stand the strain?"

"My wife and daughter would make any sacrifice for Lawrence's sake."

"The sacrifice would benefit this bloodsucker, which is a different thing," Foster rejoined. "Then, even if you impoverished your family, you'd only put off the reckoning, which would come when the fellow had taken all you'd got. In short, he must be bluffed off now."

He sat down and pondered and there was silence for some minutes. It had got dark and he heard the steady patter of the rain. He knew he had undertaken a difficult task, and felt daunted because he could not see his way. Still, it looked as if the happiness of these charming people, and perhaps his partner's future, depended upon him. If that were so, he must not fail them.

"Well," he said by and by, "my opinion is that Daly thinks Lawrence is here, so to speak within his reach, which must be a strong encouragement. If he learns the truth, he'll, no doubt, go back to Canada and get on his track. I'd like to set him searching up and down Great Britain. There would be something amusing in his wasting his time and money, but at present I don't see how it could be done. However, we have until to-morrow to think of a plan."

Featherstone left him soon afterwards and he stayed in the library until dinner, which was a melancholy function. It was necessary to appear undisturbed while the servants were about, and he envied his friends' fine self-control. These people had courage and when they talked carelessly about things of no importance he did his best to play up. Still, although they sometimes laughed, their amusement sounded forced, there was a curious feeling of tension, and he thought Mrs. Featherstone once or twice showed signs of strain.

When the meal was over he made an excuse for leaving them alone, but some time afterwards Alice came into the hall, where he sat quietly thinking. She was calm, but he saw she had heard about the threatened danger. He got up as she advanced, but she beckoned him to sit down.

"My father has told me about the letter, and I understand you know," she said.

"I wish I knew what ought to be done! It's an awkward matter. To tell the truth, it bothers me."

Alice sat down, shielding her face from the fire with her hand.

"You mean you feel you ought to put it right?"

"Something of the kind," said Foster, forcing a smile, "In a sense, of course, that's presumptuous; but then, you see, I'm in your brother's debt."

"You like to pay your debts," Alice remarked, fixing a level glance on him.

"When I can; but that's not all. I'm not in Lawrence's debt alone," Foster answered with some diffidence. "I came over here, a stranger, ignorant of your ideas and customs, and you made me welcome. Of course, if I had jarred you, you wouldn't have let me know; but there are degrees of hospitality."

Alice smiled. "You needn't labor your excuses for wanting to help us, and you are not a stranger now. You must have understood this when my father showed you the letter."

"Thank you," Foster replied with feeling, and was silent for the next few moments. Alice, who was proud and reserved, trusted him, and he must somehow justify her confidence. He had a vague plan in his mind, but it needed working out.

"But we must be practical," she resumed. "Can you help? You must see that there is nobody else who can."

Foster made a sign of agreement, for it was plain that Featherstone could not tell his friends about his trouble.

"I begin to think I might; but although I haven't quite made my plans yet, I see some danger. Would you take a risk for your brother's sake?"

The girl's eyes sparkled, and he saw that she had Lawrence's reckless courage. He had heard his partner laugh when they faced starvation on the frozen trail.

"I would take any risk to save him or punish the blackmailer."

"Very well. I rather think your father will leave things to me, and I have a half-formed plan. There ought to be some humor in the plot, if I can work it out. Daly's plainly convinced that your brother's here, and I don't see why he shouldn't be encouraged to stick to his opinion. In fact, the longer he looks for Lawrence, the more amusing the thing will get. Of course, he may turn spiteful when he finds he has been tricked, but he, no doubt, means to do all the harm he can already. However, you must give me until tomorrow."

Alice got up and when he rose said quietly, but with something in her voice that thrilled him: "I think you like my mother and she knows I meant to talk to you. Lawrence is very dear to her and if he were dragged back into disgrace, now when we thought it was all forgotten and he has made a new start in Canada, I am not sure she could bear the shock. There is nobody else who could help us and we trust to you."

"Then I must try to deserve it," Foster answered with a bow. "But what about your old servant, John? Have you much confidence in him?"

The girl's tense face relaxed. "In a sense, John is one of the family, but if you want his help, you must use some tact and not expect Western frankness. He is remarkably discreet."

Foster opened the door for her, and then went to the gun-room, where he found John, who had driven him from the station when he arrived, pouring out some Rangoon oil. Sitting down carelessly, he lighted a cigarette.

"I understand you were rather fond of my partner, Lawrence Featherstone," he remarked.

"If I may say so, sir, I was. A very likable young gentleman."

"I expect you know he got into trouble."

John looked pained at his bluntness. "I heard something about it, sir. Perhaps Mr. Lawrence was a little wild. It sometimes happens in very good families."

"Just so," said Foster. "Would you be surprised to hear he hadn't got out of that trouble yet?"

"Not surprised exactly; I was afraid of something like it, sir."

Foster knew this was as much as he would admit, but felt that he could trust the man.

"Very well. My partner's in some danger, and with Mr. Featherstone's permission I must try to see him through, but may want your help. I suppose you're willing?"

"Yes, sir. If it's for Mr. Lawrence, you can take it that I am."

"You can drive an automobile pretty well?"

"Not like a professional, sir, but now we don't keep a chauffeur I often drive to the station."

"That's satisfactory. I may want the car to-morrow evening, but nobody else must know about this."

"Very good, sir," said John. "When you're ready you can give me your instructions; they'll go no further."

Then he dipped a rag in the oil and began to rub a gun, and Foster went out, feeling satisfied. It was plain that he could rely upon the old fellow, who he thought was unflinchingly loyal to the Featherstones. After all, it was something to have the respect and affection of one's servant.



IX

THE FALSE TRAIL

When Foster got up next morning he had made his plan, and spent ten minutes explaining it to John. The old fellow understood his orders, and although he listened with formal deference, the faint twinkle in his eyes showed that he approved. After breakfast, Foster asked Featherstone to come out on the terrace and while they walked about indicated the line he thought it best to take.

Featherstone agreed, but expressed some misgivings. "There may be danger in putting Daly on the track, and after all I'm only delaying a crisis that must be faced."

"The longer it's delayed, the better; something may happen in the meantime," Foster replied. "Then, you see, the track is false. When the fellow finds you obstinate, he'll try to get hold of Lawrence, particularly as he got money from him before; but as he believes Lawrence is in England, he'll have some trouble. The advantage is that he won't be able to bother you while all his time and energy's occupied by following me."

"That is possible," said Featherstone. "But you may find it difficult to get away from the rogue, since you must give him some kind of a clew."

Foster laughed. "I don't mind the difficulty, sir. In fact, I imagine, I'm going to enjoy the chase."

"There's a point that must be thought of. If he goes to the police when he can't find Lawrence, it would be awkward. I should be no better off than I am now."

"It's unlikely. So long as Daly sees the smallest chance of extorting money he'll keep his secret. The reason's obvious."

"Well," said Featherstone, with feeling, "you are doing us a service we can't repay. I frankly don't like the plan, because it can only work at your expense, but it will give us time and I can think of nothing else."

Foster left him with a feeling of pleasant excitement. He was doing his host a favor and this was something, but the adventure appealed to him for other reasons. He had, in Canada, found scope for his energy in profitable work, but there was a reckless vein in him, and it was exhilarating to feel that he could now follow his bent, without being hampered by the necessity for making the undertaking pay. After all, there was not much enjoyment in what one did for money, and he thought he was going to get some amusement out of the game. Still, he did not want to leave the Garth. Alice had treated him with a quiet friendliness he valued and he began to hope he was making some progress in her good opinion. It was, however, comforting to feel that he was going to save her pain, and for the rest of the day he was conscious of a cheerfulness he tried to hide in view of the anxiety the others had to bear.

In the evening John put Lawrence's traveling bag under a small table near the door in the hall and arranged the cloth so that it hung over and covered part of the bag but did not hide it altogether. He took some trouble, and when he was satisfied it looked as if the bag had been carelessly placed where it would be out of sight but ready to be picked up quickly if its owner meant to leave the house in a hurry. Moreover, if anybody thought it worth while to look under the table, the letters L.F. could be distinguished and Lawrence's name was engraved upon the lock. Foster, having learned from the railway guide when Daly would arrive, had arranged that he should be left alone for a minute or two in the hall. If the fellow made good use of the time, so much the better.

After putting on a gray waterproof, leggings, and strong boots, Foster stood at the open door of his room until he heard Daly come in. There was silence for the next minute, and then footsteps echoed along a passage as the visitor was taken to the library, where Featherstone would receive him, and Foster pulled out his watch. As there was no town for some distance and Daly would not expect to be asked to stay, he no doubt intended to return to the station across the moor, where he could catch the last train. Allowing for the long drive, he could not stop long at the Garth; but Foster must give Featherstone time enough. The latter had a rather difficult part, because he must allow Daly to state his terms, and not reject them until the last moment. He was too honest and too proud to dissemble well, but he was not a fool and there was much at stake.

At length, Foster stole quietly down the stairs, and smiled as he remarked that the cloth on the small table had been pulled aside. This had been done cautiously, but a fold that overhung the edge was not in quite its former position. Then he picked up the bag and went out, making noise enough to be heard in the library as he shut the hall door. When he went down the steps he saw the lights of the car that had brought Daly glimmer on the wet gravel of the drive. The back of the car was next him, for it had been turned round ready to start. Then Featherstone's car rolled up quietly, and Foster was getting in when he stopped and felt his heart beat as a slender figure appeared on the terrace. He turned, with his foot on the step, and waited until Alice came up.

"I couldn't let you go without a last word of thanks," she said. "It is splendid! We can't forget."

"I believe I'm going to have an amusing trip," Foster replied. "Then, you see, the Garth is a remarkably nice place to come back to, and there's the pleasure of looking forward to my return. But I'm unselfish enough to hope I won't have that satisfaction all to myself."

Alice smiled, but there was something very friendly in her look and her voice was unusually soft.

"You can always be sure of your welcome and we will miss you when you are away. I very sincerely wish you good luck."

Foster was seldom theatrical, but felt the occasion justified his doing something unusual. John, having already grasped the wheel, had his back to them, and Foster took the girl's hand, which rested on the rail, and kissed it. She made a little abrupt movement, and he thought he saw a tinge of color in her face, but she did not look angry and he felt a strange exultant thrill.

"Make as much noise as you can," he said to John.

The car backed across the rattling gravel, and the girl's figure faded into the gloom; then John turned the wheel and they shot forward down the drive. The lights of the other car vanished, there was a splash as they swung into the wet road, and Foster pulled the rug around him when he had struck a match and noted the time.

"You needn't hurry her too much," he said. "If I catch the train by about a minute, it is all I want."

"Very good, sir. If I may remark, the other's a powerful car."

"I don't think they'll try to overtake us until we're near the station," Foster answered with a laugh. "But we can't allow it then."

"No, sir," said John. "I quite understand."

They ran down the valley at a moderate speed, and Foster, looking around when they came to a straight piece of road, was not surprised to see a gleam of light in the distance. He lost it a few moments afterwards, but it flashed out again every now and then, until they plunged into a thick fir wood. They were about half-way to the station, but the light had not got much nearer. He had, however, not expected it to do so, because he thought Daly would be satisfied if he kept his supposititious victim in sight. The danger would arise when they got near the station, and whether they overcame it or not depended on John's coolness and nerve. Foster thought the man would not fail him.

It was a dark night and a damp haze thickened the gloom. Stone walls and ragged thorn bushes leaped up in the glare of the lamps and faded, but one could see nothing outside the bright beam. This was a disadvantage, because Foster could not tell where he was and much depended on his reaching the station with exactly the right time to spare. He was rather anxious about it, since his plan would be spoiled at the start if the train were late. By striking a match in the shelter of the screen, he could see his watch, but it did not seem prudent to distract John's attention often.

By and by the walls vanished and withered heath, glistening with damp, rolled past the car. They were running through a peat moss, with a deep ditch on one side, and climbing an incline, to judge by the heavy throb of the engine. Shallow ruts, filled with water, ran on in the blaze ahead and showers splashed about the wheels. Outside the bright beam the darkness was impenetrable. Foster, however, was conscious of a pleasant thrill. If one looked at the thing in one way, he was plunging into trouble that might have been avoided; but he had been prudent long enough and found a strange satisfaction in being rash. Besides, no matter what difficulties he got into, he would be repaid by the memory of the look Alice had given him. The way the warm color crept into her face had stirred him as nothing else had done. Anyhow, he had started on the adventure and was going to see it through.

After a time, they sped across a bridge, where a burn splashed noisily down a ravine, and John asked: "How long have we got, sir?"

"Ten minutes, if the train's punctual."

"And where's the other car, sir?"

Foster, whose eyes were dazzled by the match he had struck, looked round and saw a misty flash in the dark.

"About half a mile behind, I think."

"Very good, sir. It all depends upon the train now. She's not often late."

The throb of the engine quickened and struck a sharper note, and Foster felt the car leap forward up the hill. Turning in his seat, he watched the flickering gleam behind and saw it grow fainter and then gradually get bright. It looked as if the pursuers had lost sight of the front car's tail lamp and were increasing their speed.

"They're creeping up," he said to John, who did not reply.

Foster thought they had now reached the top of the moor, and as they swung up and down across the heathy undulations a streak of light flashed out in the distance.

"That's the train," he said.

"Yes, sir. You can see her for two or three miles."

Then there was a change in the sound and motion, and Foster knew the engine was running all-out. Showers of small stones and water flew up about the wheels and the wind whipped his face, but the following light was a little nearer when he looked behind. The other car had reached the summit and it would be a close race, but he thought they could keep their lead long enough. Then he looked ahead and saw that the bright streak he had noticed had gone. The fireman had, no doubt, closed the furnace door, but the lights from the carriage windows twinkled faintly across the heath. He could not see the station, but it was obvious that he had not much time to spare.

A few moments later they swept across a low rise and a faint blur of buildings loomed among a cluster of lights. They were now going furiously and he seized the side of the car as they swung round a curve. He felt the near wheels sink as they crushed through spongy sod, and the car tilted, but they got round, and there was a sudden jar when the station lay some fifty yards ahead. Foster jumped out before the car quite stopped.

"Round with her! I'm all right," he said.

"Very good, sir. If I might remark———"

Foster heard nothing more as he ran up the road, carrying the bag. The train was very near; he could hear the roar it made in a shallow cutting, but as he reached the station the sound ceased and the engine rolled past. He took a ticket to Edinburgh, and hurrying across the bridge, picked a compartment that had another occupant and stood at the door, where he could see the steps he had come down. There was nobody on the bridge and he seemed to be the only passenger, but a porter began to drag some packages from the van and leisurely put them on a truck. Foster quivered with impatience as he watched the fellow. If he kept the train another minute, it might be too late. Then he glanced back at the bridge. Nobody came down the steps yet, but the porter had not finished, and one could still catch the train.

He crossed the floor to the opposite window, from which he could see the booking office, but as he loosed the strap he felt a jerk. Then the engine panted and the wheels began to turn. He ran back to the other door, but there was only the porter on the platform and the lamps were sliding past. Pulling up the window, he turned to the passenger with a forced smile.

"Sorry if I disturbed you! The man I was looking for hasn't come."

In the meantime, John turned the car round and drove back to the bend. The road was narrow, but there was room for two vehicles to pass, provided that both kept well to the proper side. John, however, took the middle and did not swerve much when a dazzling beam swept round the curve. He blew his horn; there was an answering shriek from an electric hooter, and then a savage shout. John, who was near the left side now, but not so close as he ought to have been, freed the clutch and used the brake, and the other car, missing him by an inch or two, plunged into the wet grass across the road. As he stopped he saw the boggy soil fly up and the lamps sink towards the ground. Jumping off, he found the car had brought up in front of a wall, with the front wheels buried to the axle. The driver and a very angry man in a soft hat were getting out.

"You nearly wrecked us," said the latter. "What d'you mean by fooling about the middle of the road like that?"

"I wasn't quite in the middle, sir. It's an awkward curve and your lights dazzled me."

"Where's the man you brought?"

"I imagine he's caught the train, sir," John answered with imperturbable calm.

He thought the other came near to knocking him down, for he clenched his fist, but after a savage exclamation went back to the car.

"The engine won't move her. How are we going to get her out?" he said.

"I could give you a pull, sir," John replied with respectful gravity, "They keep a rope at the station for shunting. Perhaps you had better send the driver, sir."



X

THE DROVE ROAD

Foster spent the next day lounging about Edinburgh and looking out for Daly, whom he had expected to follow him. He, however, saw nothing of the man, and felt half disappointed, because he missed the excitement of the chase. It was too cold and wet to roam the streets with much enjoyment, there was no good play at the theaters, and he had seen picture palaces in Canada. Moreover, he had led an active life, and having nothing to do soon began to get irksome. It was curious that he had never felt bored at the Garth, even when he scarcely saw Alice during the day, but then the Garth had a peculiar charm. It was possible that Daly had gone back there, and he had been a fool to leave.

He was sitting in the hotel smoking-room next morning when a stranger came up and sat down close by. The man had a quiet, thoughtful air, and lighted his pipe. There was nothing about him to indicate his rank or occupation, and Foster wondered what he wanted.

"I hope you won't object to my asking if you're a Canadian?" he said.

"I don't know if I object or not. Anyhow, I'm English."

"But perhaps you have been in Canada," the stranger remarked politely.

Foster looked hard at him. "I haven't the pleasure of your acquaintance, but had better hint that you're wasting time if you're a friend of Daly's."

The stranger smiled and Foster saw that he had been incautious. "I don't know the gentleman."

"Then what is your business?"

"If you insist on knowing, I'm connected with the police."

"Well," said Foster, "I'll pay you a compliment by stating that I wouldn't have imagined it; but I don't understand what the police have to do with me."

"It's very possible that they have nothing to do with you, but you can perhaps make that plain. You signed the visitor's book John Foster, which doesn't quite correspond with the letters on your bag."

"Ah!" said Foster, "I begin to understand. No doubt, you noticed Lawrence Featherstone's name on the lock, and the Canadian Pacific label?"

"I did," the other admitted with humorous dryness.

Foster pondered. On the whole, he was glad he had registered in his proper name, though he had been tempted to give Featherstone's, in case Daly made inquiries. He had, however, decided that the latter probably thought they were both in Great Britain and would expect them to keep together. He did not doubt that his visitor belonged to the police, because an impostor would be easily found out.

"Featherstone's my partner and I took his baggage by mistake when we left a small Canadian town," he said, and added after a pause: "I expect the explanation sounds rather lame."

The other smiled, but Foster felt he was being subjected to a very close scrutiny. Although sensible of some annoyance, he felt inclined to like the man, who presently resumed: "You have been in Edinburgh before."

"For a day; I left in the evening and went to Newcastle."

"To Newcastle?" said the other thoughtfully. "Did you stay there?"

"I did not," said Foster, thinking frankness was best. "I went back to a country house in Northumberland that belongs to my partner's father. Lawrence Featherstone and I own a sawmill in Canada, but at present I'm taking a holiday in the Old Country."

He could not tell if the man was satisfied or not, for he asked abruptly: "Who is the Mr. Daly you mentioned?"

"I really don't know. It looks as if he were something of a blackmailer, and I must admit that I was trying to keep out of his way."

The man pondered for a minute, and then getting up gave Foster a card.

"Very well; I don't think I need keep you. You have my address if you should want to communicate with me."

He went out and Foster thought he had not handled the situation with much skill. It was a mistake to mention Daly and perhaps to state that he had been to Newcastle. He thought the man looked interested when he heard this. Then it was curious that he seemed to imagine Foster might want to write to him; but he began to see a possible reason for his being watched. Hulton had, no doubt, sent somebody over to inquire about the stolen bonds, and if the man had discovered anything important, he might have asked the help of the police. In this case, the movements of strangers from Canada would be noted. The trouble was that Foster could not be frank with the police, because Lawrence's secret must be carefully guarded.

In the afternoon he entered a fashionable tea-room and sat for a time in a corner. The room was divided into quiet nooks by Moorish arches, from which lamps of an antique pattern hung by chains and threw down a soft red glow. Heavy imitation Eastern curtains deadened the hum of voices and rattle of cups. The air was warm and scented, the light dim, and Foster, who had often camped in the snow, felt amused by the affectation of sensual luxury as he ate iced cakes and languidly watched the people. He could only see two or three men, one of whom he had noticed at the hotel and afterwards passed in the street. This was probably a coincidence, but it might have a meaning, and he moved back behind the arch that cut off his corner. When he next looked about, the fellow had gone. There were, however, a number of pretty, fashionably-dressed girls, and he remarked the warm color in their faces and the clearness of their voices. The Scottish capital seemed to be inhabited by handsome women.

He was, however, somewhat surprised when one came towards him and he recognized the girl he had met at Hawick station. He had hardly expected her to claim his acquaintance, as she obviously meant to do.

"You seem to be fond of Edinburgh," she remarked, sitting down at his table.

"It's an interesting city. I'm a stranger and ignorant of your etiquette; but would I be permitted to send for some cakes and tea?"

"I think not," she answered, smiling. "For one thing, I must go in a minute."

Foster waited. The girl had good manners, and he thought it unlikely that she was willing to begin a flirtation with a man she did not know; besides she had stopped him sending for the tea. She was pretty, and had a certain air of refinement, but it was a dainty prettiness that somehow harmonized with the exotic luxury of the room. This was a different thing from Alice Featherstone's rather stately beauty, which found an appropriate background in the dignified austerity of the Garth.

"Are you enjoying your stay here?" she resumed. "I begin to think I've had enough. The climate's not very cheerful, and the people seem suspicious about strangers."

"The Scots are proverbially cautious," she answered carelessly, but Foster thought he saw a gleam of interest in her eyes. "I suppose somebody has been bothering you with questions?"

"Yes; as I'm of a retiring character, it annoys me. Besides, I really think it's quite unjustified. Do I look dangerous?"

"No," she said with a twinkle, "if you did, I shouldn't have ventured to speak to you. On the contrary, you have a candid air that ought to banish distrust. Of course, I don't know if it's deceptive."

"You have to know people for some time before you understand them, but, on the whole, I imagine I'm harmless," Foster replied. "That's what makes it galling. If I had, for example, a part in some dark plot, I couldn't resent being watched. As it happens, I merely want to get as much innocent pleasure as possible out of a holiday, and feel vexed when people won't let me."

The girl gave him a quick, searching look, and then said carelessly, "One can sympathize with you; it is annoying to be watched. But after all, Edinburgh's rather dull just now, and the cold winds are trying to strangers."

"Is this a hint that I ought to go away?"

"Do you take hints?" she asked with a smile. "Somehow I imagine you're rather an obstinate man. I suppose you took the packet to Newcastle?"

"I did," Foster admitted in an apologetic voice. "You see, I promised to deliver the thing."

"And, of course, you kept your word! Well, that was very nice of you, but I wouldn't make any rash promises while you stay in this country. Sometimes they lead one into difficulties. But I must go."

She left him with a friendly smile, and he sat down again in a thoughtful mood. It looked as if she had had an object in talking to him, and she had learned that he had gone to Newcastle and had since been watched. He gathered that she thought the things had some connection, though her remarks were guarded. Then she had given him another hint, which he meant to act upon.

Leaving the tea-room, he walked for a short distance and then stopped on the pavement in Princes Street and looked about. It was dark, but a biting wind had cleared the air. At one end of the imposing street a confused glimmer marked the neighborhood of the Caledonian station, and when one looked the other way a long row of lights ran on, and then curving round and rising sharply, ended in a cluster of twinkling points high against the sky. The dark, blurred mass they gathered round was the Castle rock, and below it the tall spire of the Scott monument was faintly etched against the shadowy hollow where the gardens sloped away.

Now he had resolved to leave the city, Foster felt its charm and half resented being, in a manner, forced to go, but walked on, musing on the way women had recently meddled with his affairs. To begin with, Carmen had given him the troublesome packet, then it was largely for Alice Featherstone's sake he had embarked on a fresh adventure, and now the girl in the tea-room had warned him to leave the town. It was a privilege to help Alice, but the others' interference was, so to speak, superfluous. A man could devote himself to pleasing one woman, but one was enough.

After a few minutes he stopped and looked into a shop window as a man passed a neighboring lamp. It was Daly and the fellow moved slowly, although Foster did not think he had seen him yet. He would know very soon and for a moment or two he felt his heart beat, but when he looked round Daly had passed. Foster followed and saw him enter the tea-room. This was disturbing, although Foster remembered that he had told nobody he was going there. He decided to leave Edinburgh as soon as he could next morning and bought a map of southern Scotland on his way back to the hotel.

After dinner, he sat down in the smoking-room near a man to whom he had once or twice spoken. The latter was a red-faced, keen-eyed old fellow, and looked like a small country laird.

"I've come over to see Scotland and have been long enough in the capital," he said. "After all, you can't judge a country by its towns. What would you advise?"

"It depends upon what ye want to see?" the man replied.

"I think I'd like the moors and hills. I get enough of industrial activity in Ontario, and would sooner hear the grouse and the black-cock than shipyard hammers. Then I'd prefer to take my time and go on foot."

His companion nodded approval. "Ye have sense. Are ye a good walker?"

"I have walked three hundred miles through pretty rough country and dragged my belongings on a hand-sledge."

"Then I think I can tell ye how to see rugged Scotland, for the country has two different sides. Ye can take your choice, but ye cannot see both at once. I could send ye by main roads, where the tourists' motors run, to the show-places, where ye would stay at smart hotels, with Swiss and London waiters, and learn as much o' Scottish character as ye would in Lucerne or the Strand."

"I don't think that is quite what I want. Besides, I haven't much time and would sooner keep to the south."

"Then ye'll take the high ground and go by tracks the moss-troopers rode, winding up the waters and among the fells, where there's only cothouse clachans and lonely farm-towns. Ye'll see there why the old Scottish stock grows firm and strong and the bit, bleak country breeds men who make it respected across the world. Man, if I had not rheumatism and some fashious business I cannot neglect, we would take the moors together!"

"You don't seem to like the smart hotels," Foster remarked, half amused.

"I do not like the folk they harbor. The dusty trippers in leather coats and goggles ye meet at Melrose and Jedburgh are an affront to an old Scottish town. But a man on foot, in clothes that match the ling and the gray bents, gives a human touch to the scene, whether ye meet him by a wind-ruffled lochan or on the broad moor. Ye ken he has come slowly through the quiet hills, for the love o' what he sees. But ye will not understand an old man's havering!"

"I think I do," said Foster. "One learns the charm of the lone trail in the Canadian bush. But I have a map, and don't care much where I go, so long as it's somewhere south. Suppose you mark me out a route towards Liddesdale."

The man did so, and jotted down a few marginal notes.

"I'm sending ye by the old drove roads," he explained. "Sometimes ye'll find them plain enough, but often they're rough green tracks, and nobody can tell ye when they were made. The moss-troopers wore them deeper when they rode with the spear and steel-cap to Solway sands. Afterwards came the drovers with their flocks and herds, the smugglers' pack-horse trains, and messengers to Prince Charlie's friends from Louis of France. That's why the old road runs across the fell, while the turnpike keeps the valley. If ye follow my directions, ye'll maybe find the link between industrial Scotland and the stormy past; it's in the cothouse and clachan the race is bred that made and keeps alive Glasgow and Dundee."

Foster thanked him and examined the map. It was clearly drawn and showed the height and natural features of the country, which was obviously rough. The path marked out led over the Border hills, dipped into winding valleys, and skirted moorland lakes. It seemed to draw him as he studied it, for the wilderness has charm, and the drove road ran through heathy wastes far from the smoke of factories and mining towns. Well, he was ready to cross the bleak uplands, without troubling much about the mist and rain, for he had faced worse winters than any Scotland knew, but he reflected with grim amusement that Daly would find the traveling rough if he got on his trail.

There were, however, some things he needed for the journey, and he went out to buy them while the shops were open. Next morning he gave instructions that letters for himself and Lawrence should be sent to Peebles, and when the clerk objected that he could not forward Featherstone's without the latter's orders, said it did not matter. He had left a clew for Daly, which was all he wanted, but, in order to make it plainer, he sent the porter to the station with the bag and told him to wait by the Peebles train. Then he set off, dressed in the oldest clothes he had, wondering what adventures he would meet with in the wilds.



XI

THE POACHERS

Foster left Peebles soon after his arrival and following the Tweed down stream to Traquair turned south across the hills. A road brought him to Yarrow, where he sat down to smoke in the shelter of a stone dyke by the waterside. He had no reason to believe that he was followed, and there were two good hotels beside St. Mary's loch, which was not far off. But Foster did not mean to stay at good hotels and knew that Daly would not have much trouble in reaching St. Mary's in a car if he arrived at Peebles by a later train. It would then be difficult to keep out of his way, and if he found Foster alone, he would, no doubt, go back to look for Lawrence at the Garth. Taking this for granted, Foster thought it better to put Ettrick Forest between himself and possible pursuit.

It looked a lonely region on the map, and when he glanced south the hills loomed, dark and forbidding, through thin gray mist. Pools of water dotted the marish fields, and beyond these lay a wet, brown moss where wild cotton grew among the peat-hags. Plover were crying about the waste and a curlew's shrill tremolo rang out as it flitted across the leaden sky. The outlook was not encouraging, but Foster picked his way across the bog and struck up the side of a fell. There was a road, but it would take him some distance round.

Wiry grass twined about his feet, he sank in velvety green patches where the moss grew rank, and walking was harder when he crossed belts of withered heath. Here and there a gnarled thorn bush rattled its dry twigs in the wind; there were bits of dykes and rusty wire fences, but he saw no path except the winding tracks the sheep had made. Still Ettrick water was not far off, and he would strike it if he held south. Heavy rain met him on the summit, and after struggling on for a time he took shelter behind a broken dyke. The rain got worse and the moor was lost in mist a quarter of a mile away, but he heard a faint, hoarse sound in the haze below. He thought this was the roar of Ettrick or a fall on a moorland burn that would lead him down.

When he began to feel cold he set off again, and the rain, which thinned as he went down hill, stopped altogether when he reached the bottom. A road ran beside the angry water, but the valley was deeply sunk in the dark fells and their summits were hidden by drifting mist. There was no hint of life in the dreary landscape except a moving patch that looked like a flock of sheep, and a glance at the map showed that his path led on across the waste to the south. It would be a long march to Hawick, which was the town he meant to reach, particularly if he went up the valley, until he found a road, but his director had indicated a clachan as his stopping-place. He understood that a clachan meant a hamlet, and the old fellow had said he would find rough but sufficient accommodation in what he called a change-house. It would be awkward if he lost the way, but this must be risked, and crossing the river he struck into the hills.

He found a rough track, and presently the sky began to clear. Pale-blue patches opened in the thinning clouds, and gleams of sunshine, chased by shadow, touched the moor. Where they fell the brown heath turned red and withered fern glowed fiery yellow. The green road, cropped smooth by sheep and crossed by rills of water, swung sharply up and down, but at length it began a steady descent, and about four o'clock in the afternoon Foster stopped in the bottom of a deep glen.

A few rushy fields occupied the hollow and a house stood in the shelter of a thin fir wood. It had mullioned windows and a porch with pillars, but looked old, and the walls were speckled with lichens. A garden stretched about it, and looking in through the iron rails, Foster saw gnarled fruit trees fringed with moss. Their branches cut against a patch of saffron sky, and a faint warm glow touched the front of the building. There was a low window at its nearer end and Foster saw a woman sewing by the fire.

The house had a strangely homelike look after the barren moors, and Foster, feeling tired and cold, longed to ask for shelter. Had it been a farm, he might have done so, but he thought it belonged to some country laird and resumed his march. He never saw the house again, but remembered it now and then, as he had seen it with the fading light that shone through the old apple trees touching its lichened wall.

The road led upwards and he stopped for breath at the summit. The glen was now shut in and the light going, but here and there in the distance a loch reflected a pale gleam. A half-moon shone above the hills and the silver light got brighter as he went on. The wind had fallen and the silence was emphasized by the faint splash of water. After a time, he came down to lower ground where broken dykes divided straggling fields, but there was no sign of life until as he turned a corner an indistinct figure vanished among the dry fern in the shadow of a wall. Foster thought this curious, particularly when he passed the spot and saw nobody there, but there was an opening in the dyke for the sheep to go through.

A little farther on, the road ran across a field, and when he was near the middle he saw something move behind a gorse bush. Although it looked like a man's head, he did not stop. Going on, as if he had seen nothing, until he was close to the gorse, he left the track and walked swiftly but softly across the grass. When he reached the bush a man who had been crouching behind it sprang to his feet. He was tall and roughly dressed, and looked like a shepherd or farm-hand.

"Weel," he said with a truculent air, "what is it ye want with me?"

The question somewhat relieved Foster, who now noted the end of a long, thin net in the grass.

"I was curious to see what you were doing. Then I meant to ask the way to Langsyke."

"What are ye wanting there?"

"To stay the night. I was directed to a change-house where they'd take me in."

"They might. Ye're a stranger, and ye'll tak' the road again the morn?"

Foster said he meant to do so and the other pondered.

"Weel, there's a soft flow where ye might get mired if ye left the road, which is no' that plain, and I could set ye on the way, but there's a bit job I'll hae to finish first." He paused and added with a grin as he indicated the net: "Maybe ye hae a notion what it is."

"I imagine it's connected with somebody else's grouse or partridges, but that's not my business. You'll be a shilling or two richer if you show me the way."

"Then the sooner I'm finished here, the sooner we'll be off, though I doot we hae fleyt the paltrig. Bide ye by the whinns, and when ye see me at the dyke come forrad with the net. If I lift my airm, ye'll stop."

He went off with the end of the net, and Foster waited, half amused. The fellow probably wanted to ensure his saying nothing about the poaching by making him an accomplice, but this did not matter much. It was an adventure and he was anxious to find a guide. By the way the net unwound and slipped across the grass he thought there was another man at work, but he carried his part forward as he had been told and then dropped it and sat down among some rushes. Two indistinct figures were moving towards each other and he got up presently when one signaled. When he joined them a number of small dark objects showed through the net.

"Hae!" said a man who opened the meshes, and added when Foster picked up two limp birds: "We've no' done so bad."

Then Foster remembered the man he had seen as he came along the road.

"How many of you are in the gang?" he asked.

"There's twa o' us her. I'm thinking that's a' ye need ken."

"It's what I meant," said Foster apologetically. "Still I passed another fellow hiding, a short distance back."

The men, saying nothing, took out the birds and began to roll up the net. Foster had now four partridges, which they seemed to expect him to carry, and was putting their legs together so as to hold them conveniently when he heard a rattle of stones. Then a dark figure leaped down from the wall and somebody shouted: "Stand where ye are or I'll put a chairge o' number four in ye!"

A leveled gun twinkled in the moonlight, and for a moment Foster hesitated. He hardly thought the man would shoot, and it would be awkward if he was arrested with the partridges in his hand. Springing suddenly forward, he struck, from below upwards, with his stick. There was a flash and a report, but he felt himself unharmed and brought the stick down upon the gamekeeper's head. He heard the gun drop, and then turned and, keeping in the shadow of the wall, ran across the field. When he was near the opposite end, he saw another man waiting to cut him off, and seizing the top of the dyke swung himself over. He came down among withered fern and ran back behind the wall towards the spot where he had left his first antagonist, until he struck a small, winding hollow through which water flowed. This seemed to offer a good hiding-place, but Foster knew better, although he followed it for a short distance. One can often hide best in the open and it was prudent to avoid the obvious line of search. Creeping out of the hollow, he made for a clump of rushes and felt satisfied when he lay down behind it. His waterproof and cap were gray, and his pursuers would have to search all the field before they found him, unless they were lucky.

After a few minutes, he saw them, but while one plunged into the hollow, the other sat on top of the wall. This seemed to be the fellow he had struck, and Foster was relieved to see he was not badly hurt. The man, however, occupied a commanding position, because Foster's chance of remaining unseen depended largely on the searcher's height above the ground. He knew from experience gained in hunting that a very small object will hide a man so long as the line of sight he must avoid is nearly horizontal, but the fellow on the wall could see over the rushes. In consequence, immobility was his only resource, and he very cautiously turned his head enough to enable him to see.

The gamekeeper who had entered the hollow presently came back into the field and began to walk methodically up and down, and Foster regretted his rashness in helping with the net. The poachers had vanished, but the others seemed to know there was somebody about, and since they were gamekeepers would be hard to deceive. His cover was not good, and although he might have changed his place when the fellow in the field was farthest away, he feared that a movement would betray him to the other on the wall.

In the meantime, the chill of the wet soil crept through his mackintosh and his hands got numbed. He thrust them into the mossy grass for fear they should show in the moonlight, and buried his face in the rushes, which prickled his skin. He could, with some trouble, see through the clump and anxiously watched the fellow who came steadily nearer. Now and then he turned aside to examine a whinn bush, and Foster saw that he had acted wisely when he dropped behind the rushes. Had he chosen a prominent object for cover, he would have been caught.

At length, the searcher crossed the field on a line that would bring him close to where Foster lay, and the latter let his face sink lower and tried to check his breathing. He durst not look about, but heard the man's heavy boots splash in the boggy grass, until the fellow suddenly stopped. Foster thought he had seen him, but did not move. In the Northwest, he had now and then caught a jack-rabbit by carefully marking its hiding-place, but had not seen it afterwards until he nearly trod upon the crouching animal. It was comforting to remember that his pursuers had not watched him drop behind the rushes.

"Hae ye seen aught, Jock?" the keeper near him called, and Foster was conscious of keen relief.

"Naething ava," answered the other. "If he went doon the burn, he's no' come oot."

"He's no' there; ye would ha' seen him if he'd headed back."

There was silence for a moment or two and Foster heard the water bubble in the moss as the man moved his foot. The fellow would tread upon him if he took a few steps in the right direction, but his mackintosh was much the color of the withered grass and his face and hands were hidden.

Then the man on the wall remarked in a thoughtful tone: "I'm no' quite sure he went ower the dyke. Ye see, I was kin' o' staggered by the clout on the head, and he might ha' slippit oot by the gate."

"It will be Lang Pate, of course."

"Just him," agreed the other. "He was near enough to reach me with his stick and the light no' that bad. Besides, wha' else would it be?"

Foster, seeing that he had escaped notice, felt amused. Long Pete was suspected and therefore judged guilty; the keeper's last argument banished doubt.

"My heid's sair," the man resumed. "We'll look if they've gone doon the glen, and then tak' the road if ye'll row up the net."

The other crossed the field and Foster lay still until he heard him climb the wall and afterwards made for a hole that led into the road. Somewhat to his surprise, he found that he had brought the partridges. He followed the road quietly, keeping in the shadow of a dyke, although he thought the gamekeepers had gone the other way, and on turning a corner came upon the poachers lurking behind a thorn bush.

"We thought they had caught ye," one remarked.

"I suppose you were anxious about it, because you were afraid I might put them on your track."

"I canna say ye're altogether wrang, but whaur are they the noo?"

"Looking for you in the glen, I believe. But which of you is Long Pete?"

The man he had met first said it was his name, and Foster resumed: "Then I imagine the fellow with the gun means to declare that you struck him."

"He would!" Pete remarked, grinning. "Weel, it's lucky I hae twa three friends wha'll show that I couldna' ha' been near the spot just then. But we'll need to hurry."

"I think I understand," said Foster, who went on with them. "Still you can't save much time, even if you walk very fast."

"Verra true," Pete replied. "But it's no' difficult to pit back the clock."

Leaving the road presently, they struck across a bog that got softer as they advanced until Foster felt the rotten turf tremble beneath his feet. All round were clumps of rushes, patches of smooth but treacherous moss, and holes where water glimmered in the moonlight. He imagined it was a dangerous place for a stranger to cross, but his companions knew the way, and although he sank to the top of his boots they reached firmer ground. Soon afterwards, Pete showed him a rough track that crossed the side of a hill.

"Yon's your road and ye'll see the clachan in aboot a mile. If they're no' verra willing to tak' ye in, ye can tell them ye're a freend o' mine."

Foster thanked him and followed the track, which led him to a hollow where lights shone among a clump of bare ash trees. A few low, white houses straggled along the roadside, and he thought one that was somewhat larger and had dormer windows was the change-house. When he knocked he was shown into an untidy kitchen where two men sat drinking by a peat fire. At first, the landlord seemed doubtful about being able to find room for him, but his manner changed when Foster carelessly mentioned that he understood from Pete that he would be welcome, and one of the others gave him a keen glance.

"Where met ye Pate?" he asked.

"On the hill," said Foster, who felt sure of his ground. "I helped him with the net."

"Had he any luck?"

"Not much," said Foster. "Two gamekeepers turned up and although we got a few partridges Pete lost his net."

There was silence for a moment, and then another remarked: "I wouldna' say but we ken enough. We hae helpit Pate oot before, and a change is lightsome. He can gang till the moss-side folk noo."

They let the matter drop, but Foster was given a better supper than he expected and afterwards a bed in a cupboard fixed to the kitchen wall.



XII

A COMPLICATION

At noon next day Foster sat, smoking, on a bridge near the clachan. The air was mild and sunshine filled the hollow, while Foster had just dined upon some very appetizing broth. The broth was thick with vegetables, but he did not think the meat in it came from a barn-door fowl. The clachan was a poor and untidy place, but he was tired, and as the gamekeepers would not suspect a neatly-dressed stranger, had thought of stopping another night. When he had nearly finished his pipe. Long Pete came up. Foster, who had only seen him in the moonlight, now noted that he had a rather frank brown face and a twinkling smile.

"Ye'll be for Hawick?" he remarked.

Foster said he was going there and Pete resumed in a meaning tone: "It's a grand day for the road and ye could be in Hawick soon after it's dark."

"Just so," said Foster, who could take a hint. "But is there any reason I should start this afternoon?"

"Ye should ken. I was across the muir in the morning and found a polisman frae Yarrow at Watty Bell's. He'd come ower the hills on his bicycle and was asking if they'd seen a stranger wi' a glove on his left han'."

Foster made a little abrupt movement that he thought the other noted, but said carelessly, "The fellow must have had a rough trip."

"A road gangs roon' up the waterside, though I wouldna' say it's very good. I'm thinking he made an early start and would wait for dinner with Watty. Then ye might give him twa 'oors to get here."

Foster looked at his watch and pondered. He was beginning to understand Scottish tact and saw that Pete meant to give him a friendly warning. It was obvious that the policeman would not have set off across the hills in the dark of a winter morning unless he had been ordered to make inquiries. Moreover, since the gamekeepers had mistaken Foster for Pete, the orders had nothing to do with the poaching.

"Perhaps I had better pull out," he said. "But the fellow won't have much trouble in learning which way I've gone."

"I'm no' sure o' that. There's a road o' a sort rins west to Annandale and Lockerbie."

"But I'm not going west."

"Weel," said Pete, "ye might start that way, and I would meet ye where a sheep track rins back up the glen—ye'll ken it by the broken dyke where ye cross the burn. Then I would set ye on the road to Hawick ower the hill."

"Thanks," said Foster thoughtfully. "I suppose I ought to let the folks at the inn know I've gone towards Annandale, so they can tell the policeman?"

Pete's eyes twinkled. "It might be better if they didna' exactly tell him, but let him find it oot; but I'll see tae that. Polisman Jock is noo and then rather shairp."

Ten minutes later, Foster left the inn and set off across the moor. The heath shone red, and here and there little pools, round which white stones lay in the dark peat, flashed in the sunshine. The pale-blue of the sky changed near the horizon to delicate green, and a soft breeze blew across the waste. Foster enjoyed the walk, although he was puzzled and somewhat disturbed. If inquiries had been made about Featherstone, he could have understood it, but the police were asking for a man with a glove on his left hand, which could only apply to him. Daly, of course, would be glad to get him out of the way, if he had learned that he was in Scotland, but the police could not arrest a man who had done nothing wrong.

Foster now regretted that he had helped the poachers, although he thought he had made friends who would not betray him and might be useful. He had met Border Scots in Ontario, and knew something about their character. They were marked by a stern independence, inherited from their moss-trooper ancestors, and he thought Pete was a typical specimen of the virile race. The man met him at the broken dyke, and leaving the road they turned east up the side of a sparkling burn.

The narrow strip of level ground was wet and covered with moss, in which their feet sank, but the hillside was too steep to walk along. It ran up, a slope of gray-white grass, to the ragged summit where the peat was gashed and torn. Here and there a stunted thorn tree grew in a hollow, but the glen was savagely desolate, and Foster, glancing at his companion, thought he understood why the men who wrung a living from these barren hills prospered when they came out to the rich wheat-soil of Canada. The Flowers of the Forest, who fell at Flodden, locking fast the Scottish square against the onslaught of England's finest cavalry, were bred in these wilds, and had left descendants marked by their dour stubbornness. Pete's hair was turning gray and his brown face was deeply lined, but he crossed the quaking moss with a young man's stride, and Foster thought his mouth could set hard as granite in spite of his twinkling smile. He was a man who would forget neither a favor nor an injury, and Foster was glad to feel that he was on his side.

At the head of the glen they climbed a long grassy slope and came to a tableland where the peat was torn into great black rifts and piled in hummocks. This was apparently Nature's work, but Foster could not see how the storms that burst upon the hills could have worked such havoc. Crossing the rugged waste to a distant cairn, they sat down upon the stones, and Pete filled his pipe from Foster's pouch.

"Ye'll haud east until ye find a burn that will lead ye doon to the road; then as ye cross the breist o' a fell ye'll see the reek o' Hawick," he said and added after a pause: "Maybe ye'll no' be stopping in the town?"

"I'll stay the night. After that, I think I'll take the hills again. I'm going south towards Liddesdale, but I expect that's out of your beat."

Pete smiled. "There's maist to be done in my regular line this side o' Hawick. Buccleugh looks after his hares and paltrigs weel, and his marches rin wide across the country from Teviot to Liddel. But I hae freends a' the way to the North Tyne, and there's no' many sheep sales I do not attend. If ye're wanting them, I could give ye a few directions that might help ye on the road."

Foster thanked him and listened carefully. It looked as if the poachers, who seemed to work now and then as honest drovers, knew each other well and combined for mutual protection. It might be useful to be made an honorary member of the gang.

"Weel," his companion concluded, "if ye stop at the inns I've told ye o', ye'll find folks who can haud a quiet tongue, and if ye see ony reason for it, ye can say ye're a freend o' mine."

Foster rather diffidently offered him some money, but was not surprised when the man refused the gift. Indeed, he felt that it would have jarred him had Pete taken it. The latter gave him his hand with a smile and turned back to the glen while Foster pushed on across the heath. He reflected with some amusement that Pete probably thought him a fugitive from the law.

After a time he stopped to look about. His view commanded a horizon of two or three miles, for he seemed to be near the center of the tableland. Its surface was broken by the hummocks and hollows of the peat, and tufts of white wild cotton relieved the blackness of the gashes in the soil. Sheep fed in the distance, and he heard the harsh cry of a grouse that skimmed the heath. The skyline was clear, and by and by two sharp but distant figures cut against it.

Foster's first impulse was to drop into the ling, but he did not. If the men were following him, it would take them half an hour to reach the spot he occupied and, if necessary, the roughness of the ground would enable him to reach the edge of the moor without their seeing which way he went. Besides, since 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 Selkirk road. It was not cold and the street was well lighted by the windows of the shops. Briskly moving people streamed across the bridge, as if the factory hands were going home from work, but nobody seemed interested in Foster and the policeman who stood by the guide-post paid him no attention. He thought about going back to the hotel when a car, traveling rather fast, came down the road and pulled up close by.

Foster leaned quietly against the bridge and did not turn his head, but saw Daly sitting beside the driver; the half-dried mud that was thickly crusted about the car indicated a long journey. An abrupt movement might be dangerous, although he did not think Daly expected to find him or Featherstone calmly lounging about the street. The driver beckoned the policeman and Foster heard him ask if one crossed the bridge for Langholm.

The man told him to turn to the right, and after speaking to the driver Daly asked if there was a garage and a good hotel near. The policeman gave him some directions, and when the car turned round and rolled away Foster followed. He passed close by the policeman and, taking advantage of the sociable Scottish custom, nodded and remarked that it was a fine night. The man answered civilly, with a careless glance at Foster, who went on, feeling satisfied with his experiment. It was obvious that no inquiries about him had been telegraphed to Hawick and he had only Daly to deal with. This was curious, if the police were really anxious to find him.