"Imagination," he remarked to himself. "What is the matter with my nerves?" But a finger pressed upon his wrist showed him that his pulse was beating regularly.
Then came a sound that could not possibly be mistaken—a smothered sneeze.
Blight was within a few yards of Mr. McKay, but in which direction the latter was unable to decide.
Then came the scuffling of feet. The fugitive was scuffling blindly across the rock. At any instant he might pitch into the crevice right into the arms of his pursuer.
Nearer and nearer he came, cursing under his breath as his feet came in contact with the ruts and sharp corners of the rocks. Mr. McKay could even hear the laboured breathing of his quarry.
Realising the danger of making his way over the pitfalls, Blight sat down, muttering angrily at being baulked, at the same time abusing the moon for its tardy appearance.
Mr. McKay waited, rifle in hand, feeling almost pleased. He pictured the fugitive's consternation when the moonlight revealed his tracker covering him at ten paces. It was the old animal instinct, the joy of the chase, whether hunter and hunted be human beings or mere beasts of the field.
Above the tops of the distant palm-trees a pale yellow light dawned in the eastern sky. Stronger and stronger it grew, till the golden disc of the queen of night appeared, the brilliant light throwing the rocks into strong relief.
The escaped prisoner, now that his path seemed clear, prepared to make his journey towards the trees once more, and obviously fearing no danger, he scrambled over a flat-topped boulder. Barely had he stood erect when Mr. McKay, rifle to shoulder, shouted:
"The game's up once more. Throw up your hands!"