At this point I profited by a lesson which had been dinned into my ears a good many times since boyhood.  Andrew Dunlop, Maisie’s father, was one of those men who are uncommonly fond of lecturing young folk in season and out of season.  He would get a lot of us, boys and girls, together in his parlour at such times as he was not behind the counter and give us admonitions on what he called the practical things of life.  And one of his favourite precepts—­especially addressed to us boys—­was “Cultivate your powers of observation.”  This advice fitted in very well with the affairs of the career I had mapped out for myself—­a solicitor should naturally be an observant man, and I had made steady effort to do as Andrew Dunlop counselled.  Therefore it was with a keenly observant eye that I, all unseen, watched the man with his electric torch and his map, and it did not escape my notice that the hand which held the map was short of the two middle fingers.  But of the rest of him, except that he was a tallish, well-made man, dressed in—­as far as I could see things—­a gentlemanlike fashion in grey tweeds, I could see nothing.  I never caught one glimpse of his face, for all the time that he stood there it was in shadow.

He did not stay there long either.  The light of the electric torch was suddenly switched off; I heard the crackling of the map again as he folded it up and pocketed it.  And just as suddenly he was once more on the move, taking the by-way up to the north, which, as I knew well, led to Norham, and—­if he was going far—­over the Tweed to Ladykirk.  He went away at the same quick pace; but the surface in that by-way was not as hard and ringing as that of the main road, and before long the sound of his steps died away into silence, and the hot, oppressive night became as still as ever.

I presently mounted my bicycle again and rode forward on my last stage, and having crossed Twizel Bridge, turned down the lane to the old ruin close by where Till runs into Tweed.  It was now as dark as ever it would be that night, and the thunderclouds which hung all over the valley deepened the gloom.  Gloomy and dark the spot indeed was where I was to meet the man of whom Mr. Gilverthwaite had spoken.  By the light of my bicycle lamp I saw that it was just turned eleven when I reached the spot; but so far as I could judge there was no man there to meet anybody.  And remembering what I had been bidden to do, I spoke out loud.

“From James Gilverthwaite, who is sick, and can’t come himself,” I repeated.  And then, getting no immediate response, I spoke the password in just as loud a voice.  But there was no response to that either, and for the instant I thought how ridiculous it was to stand there and say Panama to nobody.

I made it out that the man had not yet come, and I was wheeling my bicycle to the side of the lane, there to place it against the hedge and to sit down myself, when the glancing light of the lamp fell on a great red stain that had spread itself, and was still spreading, over the sandy ground in front of me.  And I knew on the instant that this was the stain of blood, and I do not think I was surprised when, advancing a step or two further, I saw, lying in the roadside grass at my feet, the still figure and white face of a man who, I knew with a sure and certain instinct, was not only dead but had been cruelly murdered.