Pen rose. "We must hurry," she said. "It gets light at four and we've a long way to go."
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"To the main woods, up the Neck. The detectives and the reporters are housed within a quarter of a mile of this spot. If they look around at all in the morning they can't help but discover the path that leads here. Strangers wouldn't be kept off by the bad reputation of the place."
"How can we get away without passing them?" Don asked. "Give me some idea of the lie of the land."
"The woods are full of old roads," said Pen. "Since I was a child I have been exploring them. Some were laid out by my grandfather for the gentry to drive over. Others have been cut for the purpose of taking out logs. Across the pond there's a road comes down to the shore. We must make our way to that."
Again they went through the business of packing up. In a few minutes they were ready to start. With Don's flashlight Pen searched all about the clearing to make sure that no evidence of his sojourn had been left there. Don made a bundle of his tent and tied it on his back. He took his grub-basket in his hand, and stuck his hatchet in his belt. Pen stuffed his bundle of clothes into the grass bag with the things she had brought. They started down to the water's edge.
Don's spirits instantly began to rise. "I feel like a human being again," he said. "Instead of a caged rat."
From the spring Pen struck into the underbrush, using Don's flashlight to pick her way slowly and cautiously through the tangle. A few yards back from the water's edge it was more open.
"We'll leave a wide open track behind us here," she said, "but I don't suppose those New York detectives are very good woodsmen."
"Why couldn't we wade around the edge of the pond?" he asked.