noiselessly out of the hut, after covering up the fire to wait for his return, and hiding as far as he could the other traces of 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 divorce all forgotten—­and the abominable Roger cut finally out of her life!—­