Grant filled and lighted a pipe with a deliberateness meant to be provoking, glancing several times doubtfully at P.C.Robinson, who, of course, was grandly unaware of his presence.

Then he strolled off to the right, and, when hidden, took to his heels for a hundred yards sprint.

Turning into a winding bridle-path tucked between hedges of thorn and hazels, he walked to a point where it crossed a patch of furze.

At a little distance a hand-bridge spanned the river, and gave access to the eastern end of the village by a steep climb of the wooded cliff.

The path, in fact, was a short cut to that part of Steynholme.
He sat on a hump of rock, and waited.