I was in a wide semicircle of moorland, with the brown river as radius, and the

high hills forming the northern circumference. There was not a sign or sound of

a human being, only the plashing water and the interminable crying of curlews.

Yet, oddly enough, for the first time I felt the terror of the hunted on me. It

was not the police that I thought of, but the other folk, who knew that I knew

Scudder’s secret and dared not let me live. I was certain that they would pursue

me with a keenness and vigilance unknown to the British law, and that once their

grip closed on me I should find no mercy.

 

I looked back, but there was nothing in the landscape. The sun glinted on the

metals of the line and the wet stones in the stream, and you could not have

found a more peaceful sight in the world. Nevertheless I started to run.

Crouching low in the runnels of the bog, I ran till the sweat blinded my eyes.

The mood did not leave me till I had reached the rim of mountain and flung

myself panting on a ridge high above the young waters of the brown river.

 

From my vantage-ground I could scan the whole moor right away to the railway

line and to the south of it where green fields took the place of heather. I have

eyes like a hawk, but I could see nothing moving in the whole countryside. Then

I looked east beyond the ridge and saw a new kind of landscape—shallow green

valleys with plentiful fir plantations and the faint lines of dust which spoke

of highroads. Last of all I looked into the blue May sky, and there I saw that

which set my pulses racing....