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.