As he passed the first of the trees he heard a rattle of wings and stopped abruptly.  Wood-pigeons were fluttering among the branches, and if he had not disturbed them, there was somebody in the wood.  After a few moments, the sound died away, but he stood listening.  He could not hear Pete coming, and was sorry he had let him go; the road looked lonely, and he knew there was no house for some distance.  Still, if he had not frightened the pigeons, it might be unsafe to stay where he was, and he did not mean to turn back.  It was better to be cautious, but he must not give his imagination rein.

Bracing his courage, he went on, a little faster than before but without hurrying, and for two or three minutes heard no fresh noise.  The wood ran along the road for perhaps a quarter of a mile and he was near the middle of it when there was a sharp report and something flicked against the wall behind him.  He sprang aside instinctively, and then running forward smashed through the rotten fence and plunged into the wood.  The nervous shrinking he had felt had gone.  Now he was confronted with a danger that was not imaginary, he was conscious of savage anger and a fierce desire to come to grips with his treacherous antagonist.  His fury was greater because of his previous fear.

The wood was dark and thick.  Branches brushed against him and hindered his progress, crawling brambles caught his feet.  He could hear nothing except the noise he made, and as the fit of rage passed away his caution returned.  He was putting himself at a disadvantage, because his lurking enemy could hear him and would no doubt try another shot if he came near enough.  Stopping behind a fir trunk, with his finger on the trigger of the Browning pistol, he listened.  At first no sound came out of the dark, but he presently heard a rustle some distance off.  There was another man in the wood beside the fellow who had fired at him, but so long as he kept still and the others did not know where he was, he had an advantage over them.  They might expose themselves, and he was a good shot.

He would have liked to wait, but reflected that if he killed or disabled somebody, he would have to justify his action, and he had compromising papers in his pocket.  He did not want to destroy the checks or tell his story to the police yet.  Then he noticed that the rustling was getting farther away, as if the man was pushing through the wood towards the moor behind it, and he turned back half-reluctantly to the road.  After getting over the fence, he kept on the wet grass, and had nearly reached the end of the wood when he heard somebody running behind him.  The moon was now behind the firs and their dark shadow stretched from fence to wall.  It looked as if Pete had heard the shot and was coming to his help, but Foster kept on until he was nearly out of the wood, and then stopped, standing against the fence, a yard or two back from where the moonlight fell upon the road.  There was no use in running an unnecessary risk.