It was now dusk fast emerging into night. Once more the evening mists were rising from the swamps in the valleys. Overhead the stars were beginning to show against the declining after-glow in the north-western sky.
For nearly a couple of miles Oberfurst proceeded without interruption. Everything seemed absolutely still, save for the swish of his boots and gaiters through the bracken. It was as if his pursuers had finally abandoned their quest in the belief that the fugitive had contrived to get clear of the district.
Suddenly a whistle resembling the call of the peewit sounded from a spot almost in front, and out of the gorse rose half a dozen youthful forms clad in the well-known Boy Scout "war-paint."
The spy's first inclination was to take to his heels, but, remembering his resolve and noting the diminutive size of the lads, he stopped.
"What troop do you belong to?" he asked.
"The Endscoombe First, sir," replied the patrol leader. "We're the Peewits."
"Thank goodness I've fallen in with some scouts," rejoined the spy. "I have lost touch with my troop—the Third Oakendene. I suppose you have seen nothing of them?"
The patrol-leader, a sharp-witted Devon lad of about fifteen, "smelt a rat." For one thing, he had never heard of the Oakendene Troop; for another, he was fairly conversant with the disposition of all the scout troops engaged in assisting the military and police to scour the moors.
"I think we can help you, sir," he replied, almost without hesitation. "At any rate, we'll put you on the right path. Will you take charge of the patrol?"
The question was a "feeler." It had the desired effect, for in giving words of command the spy gave himself away. His knowledge of British army drill was comprehensive, but of scouting he knew practically nothing.