A glance back told me that I was well out of sight of the pursuit, which had not yet passed the first lift of the moor.
The lawn was a very rough place, cut with a scythe instead of a mower, and planted with beds of scrubby rhododendrons.

A brace of black-game, which are not usually garden birds, rose at my approach.

The house before me was the ordinary moorland farm, with a more pretentious whitewashed wing added.

Attached to this wing was a glass veranda, and through the glass I saw the face of an elderly gentleman meekly watching me.
I stalked over the border of coarse hill gravel and entered the open veranda door.

Within was a pleasant room, glass on one side, and on the other a mass of books.