He did not waste time cursing, but instead leapt the shale wall and took to the fields. A little footpath lay among the trees at the meadow end and Anthony Barraclough made for it with all possible dispatch jumping a brook and forcing his way through a fringe of thorn and bramble. There had been no rain for some weeks and the going was dry, a circumstance he noted with satisfaction, for your average Cornish footpath is as much a waterway as a thoroughfare for pedestrians. It was half a mile to his destination, a spot where the path converged with the high road and as he ran, Barraclough covered his face with his hand to avoid the swinging branches. A gap in the trees gave a view of the village and as he flashed across it increasing speed to avoid the risk of being seen he had a momentary glimpse of a Ford car with two men in it stopping at the gate he had recently opened. "How in blazes they found out beats me," he gasped. A sickening fear assailed him that his second line of escape might also have been blocked and, at the thought, he put out every ounce of speed he possessed. It was better to know the worst at once. The path widened out into a cart track and through an aisle of trees the white patch of the high road came into view. A casual passer-by would never have noticed the low built pigsty that butted on to the hedge, its roof and sides being almost completely masked with brushwood and bramble vine. Barraclough could not resist an exclamation of joy as he noted that the big piles of carelessly thrown kindlings were apparently untouched. He kicked away great bundles of them with his foot, produced a key and opened a small solid door. The relief was almost unbearable, but he did not linger to offer up prayers of thanksgiving. The motor bicycle flashed bravely as he dragged it out into the sun, turned on the petrol and set the controls. He shoved the gear lever into second, lifted the exhaust and pushed, and the willing little twin fired its first spluttering salvo as he bumped out of the rutted lane into the main road. Concentration on the single object of getting away had dulled his ears to other sounds, for normally he could not have failed to hear the chuff-chuff of the approaching Ford. As he swung into the saddle he saw it out of the corner of his eye and ducked. The vision of two men--an excited yell and an oath--they were almost on top of him when the twin took a healthy dose of the mixture and got away. Another second and they would have ridden him down. Barraclough swerved to the left to cut a corner and opened up. Harrison Smith did likewise, choking his engine with too wide a throttle and losing a dozen yards in half that number of seconds. "Shoot, blast you! Shoot, you blasted fool!" he roared at Dirk.