In an amazingly short time he was following the path taken by his sister. He wore no cloak, but both his side pockets bulged, and he carried a club-like staff. He sped swiftly through the slumbering village. He was sweating and shivering, and once his whole being leapt as if jerked at the whistle of a distant train. He did not intend to overtake Rachel; she must do her work deeming herself unobserved; yet he did not wish to be far behind her. Clear of the village, he began to trot on the grass at the side of the road. Years ago a sanguine and enterprising individual had caused to be erected by the roadside, midway between station and village, a superior sort of timber shanty, and had labelled it “Cyclists’ Rest—Temperance Refreshments.” There were plenty of cyclists in the summer, and numerous pedestrians also, but somehow few of them seemed to be tired or thirsty; and at the end of the second season the sanguine and enterprising individual departed, unseen by human eye, leaving a small selection of aerated waters in the refreshment-room and sundry little debts for lodging and so forth in the village. Eventually the building fell to the only bidder, Sam, the postman, who converted it into two apartments, and a fairly snug home of which he was inclined to be proud. A mere strip of garden separated the house from the road, but Sam kept it bright with flowers for eight months of the year. The front of the house was painted a pale stone-colour; the porch, the door, and the two quartets of tall, extremely narrow windows were coloured white. Altogether it provided a gay relief from the sober moorland behind it. Across the road, and separated from it by a deep ditch usually dry in summer, lay a strip of moor gently sloping upwards to the wood, through which a path supplied a short cut from the station to the village. There was no other dwelling within five minutes’ walk. When John Corrie’s eyes began dimly to discern the house he slowed his pace till he was stealing forward with every appearance of caution and alertness. Suddenly he stopped short, dropped on hands and knees, and let himself down into the ditch where he crouched, holding his breath. A vague figure was coming hurriedly from behind the house. On reaching the road it broke into a shambling run, its dark garment flapping like the wings of some huge night bird. As it passed the lurking watcher it panted and sobbed. Presently it disappeared round a bend, and the watcher heaved a sigh of angry relief. That was the worst of women: they could do nothing without making a fuss!