"I want a railway station," he said rapidly. "Where is the nearest?" Macheson pointed into the valley. "Just where you see that light burning," he answered, "but there will be no trains till the morning." "Then I must walk," the man declared feverishly. "How far is it to Nottingham?" "Twenty-five miles," Macheson answered. "Too far! And Leicester?" "Twelve, perhaps! But you are walking in the wrong direction." The man turned swiftly round. "Point towards Leicester," he said. "I shall find my way." Macheson pointed across the trees. "You can't miss it," he declared. "Climb the hill till you get to a road with telegraph wires. Turn to the left, and you will walk into Leicester." For some reason the stranger seemed to be occupied in looking earnestly into Macheson's face. "What are you doing here?" he asked abruptly. "I am close to where I am staying," Macheson answered. "Just in the wood there." The man took a quick step forwards and then reeled. His hand flew to his side. He was attacked by sudden faintness and would have fallen, but for Macheson's outstretched arm. "God!" he muttered, "it is finished." He was obviously on the verge of a collapse. Macheson dragged him into the shelter and poured brandy between his teeth. He revived a little and tried to rise. "I must go on," he cried. "I dare not stay here." The terror in his face was unmistakable. Macheson looked at him gravely. "You had better stay where you are till morning," he said. "You are not in a fit state to travel." The man had raised himself upon one arm. He looked wildly about him. "Where am I?" he demanded. "What is this place?" "It is a gamekeeper's shelter," Macheson answered, "which I am making use of for a few days. You are welcome to stay here until the morning." "I must go on," the man moaned. "I am afraid." Almost as he uttered the words he fell back, and went off immediately into an uneasy doze. Macheson threw his remaining rug over the prostrate figure, and, lighting his pipe, strolled out into the spinney. The man's coming filled him with a vague sense of trouble. He seemed so utterly out of keeping with the place, he represented an alien and undesirable note--a note almost of tragedy. All the time in his broken sleep he was muttering to himself. Once or twice he cried out in terror, once especially--Macheson turned round to find him sitting up on the rug, his brown eyes full of wild fear, and the perspiration running down his face. A stream of broken words flowed from his lips. Macheson thrust him back on the rug. "Go to sleep," he said. "There is nothing to be afraid of."