“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.”