Inside was a bit of kitchen-garden, bounded by a paling; beyond that some backs of detached houses; beyond them, again, a plot of weedy ground, a few wretched cottages, and the open, heathery moor.

Good enough for running away, but terribly bad for hiding.
I returned disconsolately to the inn.

Walking along the passage toward the staircase, I suddenly heard footsteps behind me--turned round, and saw the Bow Street runner (clothed again in his ordinary costume, and accompanied by two strange men) standing between me and the door.
"Sorry to stop you from going to Edinburgh, Mr.Softly," he said.

"But you're wanted back at Barkingham.

I've just found out what you have been traveling all the way to Scotland for; and I take you prisoner, as one of the coining gang.