He might well have run at that cry, for nothing but sheer terror had forced it from Beryl Corselas. Half from real dislike of the man, half from wanton mischief, she had dexterously slipped away from Erle and vanished like a spirit into an opening in the thick bush. Full of laughter, she had run and doubled like a hare, while he crashed after her through the scrub, till, angry and crestfallen, he had flung himself into his boat and departed. Breathless, Beryl sat down on a convenient stone and chuckled. “How cross he was! And that was a horrid lie about Andria expecting me. But he has lovely eyes, and he is--yes, he is amusing! But I don’t think I like him. I don’t like men at all,” she said, with sudden gravity. “I hate Mr. Egerton, for I don’t believe a word he says, and Mr. Heriot treats me like a child. Mr. Erle doesn’t do that.” She got up crossly and began to saunter homeward. She was almost sorry she had not gone with Erle in spite of that lie. It was dull at home, where Heriot seemed only to care to talk to Andria. “I never would have stirred a foot with Mr. Erle if Andria and Mr. Heriot had not gone off and left me like that,” she thought, with an unreasonable lump in her throat, her short-lived joy at having outwitted Erle all gone. It was pitch-dark in the woods as she began to walk back to the house. She had run and doubled so that she was not too sure where she was, and an uneasy feeling came over her that she was not on the right path. There was a queer rustling, too, in the bushes, and she listened, her heart going like a frightened bird’s. “It must be my cats,” she thought determinedly, and with a voice that was not too steady she began her queer calling croon. But not a stealthy footstep sounded anywhere; no yellow-green eyes looked from the bushes; no cubs bounded from the black underbrush. Instead there fell in the wood a sudden, deathlike silence, far more threatening to the girl than the sight of those beasts who were tame for all their fierce looks. “The man!” Her heart gave a rending bound. “That crazy, jabbering man. And he’s hunting me!” Wild with terror she looked round her, and had no idea which way to run. She was lost, alone in the trackless scrub; it was so dark she could not even see where she walked. And only one thing could keep the cats away if there were in sound of her call--their master’s voice that was stronger than hers, meaningless jabber though it was. In desperation she pushed straight before her, tearing through the thick bushes; stumbling, great drops of perspiration on her face from the airless heat. As she crashed forward, making noise enough to wake the dead, her ears caught above all the sounds of crackling branches and tearing vines that slight, slight rustling, as of feet that were keeping pace with her, very close beside her.