We galloped along a fair road, but we met no one. Quiet travelers shun ground trodden by armies. It was past the noon hour when we came to a small house not far from the roadside. We found the farmer who owned it at home, and in answer to our questions, fairly spoken, he said three men had passed that day, two going north and one going south, all dressed as ordinary citizens. I was particularly interested in the one going south, and asked more about him. “He was tall, dark, and young,” said the farmer. “He looked like a man of small consequence, for his clothing was ragged and his face not overclean. He wanted food, and he ate with much appetite.” I asked if the man had paid for his dinner, and the farmer showed me silver fresh from the British mint. I could well believe that this was Chudleigh. However wary and circumspect he might be he was bound to have food, and he could find it only by going to the houses he saw on his southern journey. I was confirmed in my belief an hour later, when we met a countryman on foot, who at first evinced a great desire to run away from us, but who stopped, seeing our uniforms. He explained that he knew not whom to trust, for a short while before he was riding like ourselves; now he had no horse; a ragged man meeting him in the road had presented a pistol at his head and ordered him to give up his horse, which he did with much promptness, as the man’s finger lay very caressingly upon the trigger of the pistol. “That was Chudleigh without doubt,” I said to Whitestone, “and since he also is now mounted we must have a race for it.” He agreed with me, and we whipped our horses into a gallop again. In reality I had not much acquaintance with Chudleigh, but I trusted that I would know his face anywhere. Secure in this belief we pressed on. “Unless he’s left the road to hide--and that’s not probable, for he can’t afford delay--we ought to overhaul him soon,” said Whitestone. The road led up and down a series of lightly undulating hills. Just when we reached one crest we saw the back of a horseman on the next crest, about a quarter of a mile ahead of us. By a species of intuition I knew that it was Chudleigh. Aside from my intuition, all the probabilities indicated Chudleigh, for we had the word of the dismounted farmer that his lead of us was but short. “That’s our man!” exclaimed Whitestone, echoing our thought.