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I sprang through the gap, straining my eyes into the gloom, and as I did
so could just distinguish a dark figure receding quickly beneath the
wall of the wood.
In an instant I dashed after it. But the agility of whoever the fugitive
was, man or woman, was marvelous. I considered myself a fairly good
runner, but racing across those rough turnips and heavy, newly-plowed
land in the darkness and carrying my gun soon caused me to pant and
blow. Yet the figure I was pursuing was so fleet of foot and so nimble
in climbing the high rough walls that from the very first I was outrun.
Down the steep hill to the Scarwater I followed the fugitive, crossing
the old footbridge near Penpont, and then up a wild winding glen towards
the Cairnsmore of Deugh. For a couple of miles or more I was close
behind, until, at a turn in the dark wooded glen where it branched in
two directions, I lost all trace of the person who flew from me. Whoever
it was they had very cleverly gone into hiding in the undergrowth of one
or other of the two glens--which I could not decide.


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