“I almost think I had better let you go at Carlisle,” he said.

Pete looked rather hard at him, and then asked:  “Have I earned my money?”

“Yes,” said Foster, “you have earned it well.”

“Then, if ye have nae great objection, I’d like to take pairt in the shape o’ a third-class passage to Western Canada, where ye come from.  I hear it’s a gran’ country.”

“It’s a hard country,” Foster answered.  “You had better not be rash.  There’s not much poaching yonder; the game, for the most part, belongs to the State. and the laws about it are very strict.”

“There’s no’ that much profit in poaching here; particular when ye pay a smart fine noo and then.  For a’ that, I wouldna’ say but it’s better than mony anither job, if ye’re lucky.”

“You ought to make a good hill shepherd.”

“Verra true, an’ I might make a good plooman, and get eighteen shillings or a pound a week for either.  But what’s yon for a man’s work frae break o’ day till dark?  An’, mind ye, it’s work that needs skill.”

“Not very much,” Foster agreed.

“Weel,” said Pete, rather diffidently, “I thought ye might have some use for me, if ye’ve no’ finished the business ye are on.”

Foster doubted if Pete could help him much in Canada, since he did not expect to chase Daly through the woods.  The man, however, had been useful and might be so again; then he had talents which, if rightly applied, would earn him much more in Canada than five dollars a week.

“If you mean to come, I’ll take you,” he said.  “If I don’t want you myself, I think I can promise to give you a good start.”

Pete gave him a grateful glance, and Foster was silent while the train ran down the valley of the Esk.  On reaching Carlisle, he went to the hotel he had named and asked for a room, but did not sign the visitors’ book.  He spent the afternoon watching the station, and then went to the Eden bridge, where the road to Scotland crossed the river.  Daly had a car and might prefer to use it instead of the rather infrequent trains.

Foster did not know where the fellow was, but he had been at the Garth two days ago, and, if Featherstone’s firmness had given him a hint, might before leaving the country revisit Peebles and Hawick, where Foster had left him the first clew.  Daly was not the man to act on a hasty conclusion without trying to verify it, and Lawrence’s suit-case was still at Peebles.  It was possible that he had already gone south, but there was a chance that he had not passed through Carlisle yet and Foster durst not neglect it.

Dusk was falling when he loitered about the handsome bridge.  Lights began to twinkle in the gray bulk of the castle across the park, and along the Stanwix ridge, which rose above the waterside to the north.  The gleam faded off the river, but it was not quite dark and there was not much traffic.  Daly did not come and Foster, who was getting cold, had begun to wonder how long he should wait when a bright light flashed out at the top of the hill across the bridge.