The fact was that on the previous afternoon Mr. Yard had accomplished the remarkable feat of escaping from Dartmoor. An unexpected mist sweeping down over the granite-studded hillside when he was at work had suddenly inspired him with the idea of making a dash for liberty. Without further thought he had flung down his spade and bolted into its shelter, before either of the nearest warders had been able to stop him. It is true that a couple of charges of buckshot had whistled by, unpleasantly close to his legs, but they had only served to add to his already useful turn of speed. By the time the other convicts had been collected, and the mist had lifted sufficiently for the warders to see what they were doing, Mr. Yard was some two miles away in the opposite direction from which he had started, safely hidden in a small plantation that fringed the main road to Okestock. Here he had stayed until nightfall, expecting any minute to be routed out by a party of pursuing warders. No one had turned up, however, his ingenious idea of throwing a circle while the mist still concealed him having apparently put them temporarily off the scent. Under cover of darkness he had stolen from his hiding-place, and, following the main road at a judicious distance, tramped doggedly on mile after mile, until the lights of Okestock some hundred feet below him had shown him that he had reached the boundaries of the moor. Utterly dead beat, he had felt tempted to throw himself down on the open heather and snatch a few hours' rest. But the dread of discovery had urged him on, and, clambering cautiously down the hillside, he had made his way along the deserted road until he had reached the wire fence which bounded the Okestock football ground. Here a stray gleam of moonlight coming out between the clouds had shown him the patch of long, reedy grass behind the goal-posts. With a last effort he had crept into its shelter, and dropped almost instantly into a profound sleep. It was the sun which had woke him up eventually, a bright yellow winter sun shining down out of a sky of cloudless blue. For a moment Mr. Yard had rubbed his eyes and stared at it with amazement; then with a sudden shock he had remembered he was no longer a guest of the Government. He had tried to scramble up, but his numbed limbs had refused to support him, and with a groan he had fallen back again, feeling rather like a trapped rabbit waiting the arrival of the keeper. A few minutes' energetic rubbing, however, had been sufficient to restore both his circulation and his confidence, and it was then that he had pulled aside the reeds and peered out in the discreet manner already described. The first thing that met his eyes was the football pavilion, a small wooden building on the left of the ground. Instantly the possibilities of a change of clothes jumped into his mind.