his occupation. The damp mist outside held all
the wood stifled, and the darkness was profound. Stepping as lightly as
possible, and using his torch with the utmost precaution, he gradually
made his way to the edge of the wood, and the lip of the basin beyond it.
On the bare down was enough faint moonlight to see by, and he
extinguished his little lantern before leaving the wood. Below him were
the dim outlines of the farm, a shadowy line of road beyond, and, as it
were, a thicker fold of darkness, to mark the woods on the horizon. There
was not a light anywhere; the village was invisible, and he listened for
a long time without hearing anything but the rush of a distant train.

Ah!--Yes, there was a sound down there in the hollow--footsteps,
reverberating in the silence. He bent his head listening intently. The
footsteps seemed to approach the farm, then the sounds ceased, till
suddenly, on the down slope below him, he saw something moving. He threw
back his head with a quiet laugh.

The Ipscombe policeman, no doubt, on his round. Would he come up the
hill? Hardly, on such a misty night. If not, his retreating steps on the
farm lane would soon tell his departure.

In a few minutes, indeed, the click of an opening gate could be clearly
heard through the mist, and afterwards, steps. They grew fainter and
fainter. All clear!

Choosing a circuitous route, Delane crept down the hill, and reached a
spot on the down-side rather higher than the farm enclosure, from which
the windows of the farm-house could be seen. There was a faint light in
one of the upper two--in which he had some reason to think was that of
Rachel's bedroom. It seemed to him the window was open; he perceived
something like the swaying of a blind inside it. The night was
marvellously mild for mid-November; and he remembered Rachel's old
craving for air, winter and summer.

The light moved, there was a shadow behind the blind, and suddenly the
window was thrown up widely, and a pale figure--a woman's figure--stood
in the opening. Rachel, no doubt! Delane slipped behind a thorn growing
on the bare hill-side. His heart thumped. Instinctively his hand groped
for something in his pocket. If she had guessed that he was there--within
twenty yards of her!

Then, as he watched the faint apparition in the mist, it roused in
him a fresh gust of rage. Rachel, the sentimental Rachel, unable to
sleep--Rachel, happy and serene, thinking of her lover--the lies of her