But Vane's warning came too late. With a surprising spring, the miserable little creature flung himself through the window into the garden. Before the two men could recover from their surprise he was over the low garden wall and racing for the churchyard. Terror winged his feet, and he flew onward like an arrow from the bow. Hench leaped after him immediately, and followed close behind him, while Vane rushed out to see if the police had arrived with the warrant. Two men were there in plain clothes, with a village constable, and in a few hurried words the barrister related how the man wanted had escaped. With the rapidity of lightning the news spread, and in a wonderfully short space of time half the village, headed by the police, Vane and Bottles, were making for the churchyard. Far ahead they could see Hench running swiftly through the twilight, but of the fugitive they could see no trace. It was no wonder that the pursuers could not gain a glimpse of their wretched quarry, for Spruce flew on with amazing speed. Behind him were the dogs of justice, and he knew that once they pulled him down all that remained for him to do was to face the death he had earned by his cowardly crime. But he was not a man, only a creeping crawling thing saturated with evil, a bird of prey, a snarling tiger--and he did not wish to receive the reward of his wickedness. Instinctively he made for the wood wherein his crime had been committed. Once in its dark recesses he hoped to remain hidden until he could escape over seas. Behind him he caught sight of Hench, and longed to have a knife or revolver to shoot or stab the man he hated. Gasping, and streaming with perspiration, he plunged into the wood, broke from the path which led to the Gipsy Stile, and struggled through the dry, rustling undergrowth. They would never catch him, he swore, and even as he did the miserable creature heard the beat of Owain's feet in pursuit.