In half an hour Blake was on the edge of the moor, walking as though for a wager. A mere cart track led over the moor to Moor Hall, and on either side of it were stretched masses of whin and heather. A moon was just rising, and all the countryside was spread below, the distant cliffs drawing a black outline about the glimmer of the sea. But Blake was watching the cart track in front of him.
He had cut an oak sapling with his clasp-knife in one of the park plantations so that he should have something to match against Royce Severn’s hunting-crop.
Blake had guessed that he might catch his man on the homeward road, and catch him he did, just where the track turned eastwards over the ridge of the moor. Fifty paces ahead of him Blake saw a black figure rise against the sky-line, almost between him and the rising moon.
“Sir Royce Severn.”
The black figure paused, and waited there against the steel-grey sky.
“Who’s there?”
The moonlight showed him Hilary Blake.
“Ah, Captain Blake, come to apologise so soon!”
“No, sir, only to tell you that you are a liar.”
He could not see Severn’s face, for he had his back turned towards the moon.