In a few moments they had reached the brow of the hill over which Lawrence had seen the figure disappear. They paused for a moment to look about them. Out of range of the lights of the school, the mists were less confusing and the moonlight more effective. Tony was searching the beach with his eyes. “I can’t make out a thing,” he said. “Do you see anything of him, Ned?” “Not a thing,” Clavering answered. “Are you sure, Jim, you saw him a moment ago?” “Dead sure. Look there! isn’t that him?” “Where?” “Down by the road—near the marshes.” He pointed eagerly. “Yes, yes,” cried Tony. “Come on. He’s no good at running. We ought to catch him before he reaches the Pond. If he gets to the Woods, there’s no knowing where to find him.” They started down the hill at a rapid pace. “He would have to go round the Pond to get into the Woods,” said Clavering as they ran. “The ice is rotten; he can’t cross the Pond. So let’s go to the north and cut him off.” “You do that, Ned,” suggested Tony. “Cut in at the farmhouse by the head of the Pond; Jim and I will keep right on. He may never stop to think that the ice has gone rotten.” “All right. Look, he’s slowing up.” They could see with fair distinctness. Finch, for it was he, had reached the foot of the hill. He paused for a moment, seeming to hesitate between the Old Beach Road and the path across the marshes; and apparently chose the latter, for he crossed the road, and climbed the stone wall. Ignorant that he was so closely followed, he had not been running very fast, so that our friends were rapidly gaining upon him. By the time they had reached the foot of the hill, he was only halfway across the marshes; and was forced to pick his way, for he was not very familiar with the ground, and was handicapped by his frequent stumbling against a stone. In some places the ground was hard and frozen, in others it was wet and muddy. “Cut across now to the head of the Pond,” said Tony, as the three clambered over the stone wall which divided the marshes from the road. “We can catch him all right.” Clavering diverged, as Deering suggested, and the other two kept on directly in Finch’s track. It was difficult to run over the uneven ground, and once Jimmie tripped and fell over a boulder, so that they were delayed for a moment. The marshes were about two hundred yards wide, and ended at the high bank which had been built up around Beaver Pond, which was used as a reservoir. Beyond loomed the dark ridges of Lovel’s Woods, ghostly in the pale misty moonlight. As Finch emerged at last from the uneven, reed-choked ground of the marshes, Tony and Jimmie were scarcely fifty yards behind him. Suddenly he heard the sound of their pattering feet, and turned and stood still like a startled deer to listen. Then, as he made out the dark forms so little behind him, he ran rapidly up the steep bank of the Pond. “Jake, Jake, wait for me!” Tony called. “It’s Deering—wait a second!”