As Paul Harley had prayed would be the case, his pursuers evidently believed that he had turned in the direction of Lower Claybury.  A vague, phantom figure, Harley saw the man wave his arm, whereupon a second man joined him—­a third—­and, finally, a fourth.

Harley clenched his teeth grimly, and as the ominous quartet began to move toward the left, he resumed his slow retreat to the right—­going ever farther away, of necessity, from the only centre with which he was acquainted and from which he could hope to summon assistance.  Finally he reached a milestone resting almost against the railings of the Manor Park.

Drawing a deep breath, he sprang upon the milestone, succeeded in grasping the top of the high iron railings, and hauled himself up bodily.

Praying that the turf might be soft, he jumped.  Fit though he was, and hardened by physical exercise, the impact almost stunned him.  He came down like an acrobat—­left foot, right foot, and then upon his hands, but nevertheless he lay there for a moment breathless and temporarily numbed by the shock.

In less than a minute he was on his feet again and looking alertly about him.  Striking into the park land, turning to the left, and paralleling the highroad, he presently came out upon the roadway, along which under shelter of a straggling hedge, he began to double back.  In sight of the road dipping down to Lower Claybury he crossed, forcing his way through a second hedge thickly sown with thorns.

Badly torn, but careless of such minor injuries, he plunged heavily through a turnip field, and, bearing always to the left, came out finally upon the road leading to the station, and only some fifty yards from the bottom of the declivity.

A moment he paused, questioning the silence.  He was unwilling to believe that he had outwitted his pursuers.  His nerves were strung to highest tension, and his strange gift of semi-prescience told him that danger was at least as imminent as ever, even though he could neither see nor hear his enemies.  Therefore, pistol in hand again, he descended to the foot of the hill.

He remembered having noticed, when he had applied to the porter for information respecting the residence of Ormuz Khan, that upon a window adjoining the entrance had appeared the words “Station Master.”  The station master’s office, therefore, was upon the distant side of the line.

Now came the hardest blow of all.  The station was closed for the night.  Nor was there any light in the signal box.  Evidently no other train was due upon that branch line until some time in the early morning.  The level crossing gate was open, but before breaking cover he paused a while to consider what he should do.  Lower Claybury was one of those stations which have no intimate connection with any township.  The nearest house, so far as Harley could recall, was fully twenty yards from the spot at which he stood.  Furthermore, the urgency of the case had fired the soul of the professional investigator.