“What the devil are you doing here?” Hurd asked, as Macheson strode through the undergrowth.
Macheson pointed to the shelter.
“I could find no other lodging,” he answered, “thanks to circumstances of which you are aware.”
Stephen Hurd kicked the gate open. He was pale and there were deep lines under his eyes. He was still in his evening clothes, except for a rough tweed coat, but his white tie was hanging loose, and his patent-leather shoes were splashed with mud.
“We are chasing a man,” he said. “Have you seen him?”
“I have,” Macheson answered. “What has he done?”
There was a momentary silence. Hurd spoke with a sob.
“Murdered—my father!”
Macheson was shocked.
“You mean—that Mr. Hurd is dead?” he asked, in an awe-stricken tone.