"If he saw or heard what we took from that scented swine, no wonder he's shooting to kill. It's God's judgment on me for a fool—a fool that believed in peace and policemen. Limping Dick on a gaff like this without a gun!"
And then he saw a figure, clear against the sky, standing on the road, at the head of the path by which, three-quarters of an hour ago, he himself had gone up to get his first view of "The Myrtles."
It was Ockley; even at three hundred yards Dick could distinguish the black beard and heavy shoulders of the enemy, who was gazing from his high point, not in the direction of the fugitives, but along the moorland path to "The Coach and Horses"—the path which lay open to his eye for its whole length.
"Easy to guess the way I want to go," Dick calculated, "and easier to see that I haven't dared take it." Then, as Ockley turned his head towards the trees, "and easiest of all," he added aloud, "to spot the only cover."
Amaryllis opened her eyes, and he saw that her face was less grey.
"What is it?" she asked.
"The Hairy One," said Dick, "looking for us."
"But he can't see us, can he?"
"No. That's why he knows where we are. He's coming down."
"Don't be worried, Dick," said Amaryllis softly. "You'll get the best of him again. You've been splendid."