“Just so,” said Foster, who could take a hint.  “But is there any reason I should start this afternoon?”

“Ye should ken.  I was across the muir in the morning and found a polisman frae Yarrow at Watty Bell’s.  He’d come ower the hills on his bicycle and was asking if they’d seen a stranger wi’ a glove on his left han’.”

Foster made a little abrupt movement that he thought the other noted, but said carelessly, “The fellow must have had a rough trip.”

“A road gangs roon’ up the waterside, though I wouldna’ say it’s very good.  I’m thinking he made an early start and would wait for dinner with Watty.  Then ye might give him twa ’oors to get here.”

Foster looked at his watch and pondered.  He was beginning to understand Scottish tact and saw that Pete meant to give him a friendly warning.  It was obvious that the policeman would not have set off across the hills in the dark of a winter morning unless he had been ordered to make inquiries.  Moreover, since the gamekeepers had mistaken Foster for Pete, the orders had nothing to do with the poaching.

“Perhaps I had better pull out,” he said.  “But the fellow won’t have much trouble in learning which way I’ve gone.”

“I’m no’ sure o’ that.  There’s a road o’ a sort rins west to Annandale and Lockerbie.”

“But I’m not going west.”

“Weel,” said Pete, “ye might start that way, and I would meet ye where a sheep track rins back up the glen—­ye’ll ken it by the broken dyke where ye cross the burn.  Then I would set ye on the road to Hawick ower the hill.”

“Thanks,” said Foster thoughtfully.  “I suppose I ought to let the folks at the inn know I’ve gone towards Annandale, so they can tell the policeman?”

Pete’s eyes twinkled.  “It might be better if they didna’ exactly tell him, but let him find it oot; but I’ll see tae that.  Polisman Jock is noo and then rather shairp.”

Ten minutes later, Foster left the inn and set off across the moor.  The heath shone red, and here and there little pools, round which white stones lay in the dark peat, flashed in the sunshine.  The pale-blue of the sky changed near the horizon to delicate green, and a soft breeze blew across the waste.  Foster enjoyed the walk, although he was puzzled and somewhat disturbed.  If inquiries had been made about Featherstone, he could have understood it, but the police were asking for a man with a glove on his left hand, which could only apply to him.  Daly, of course, would be glad to get him out of the way, if he had learned that he was in Scotland, but the police could not arrest a man who had done nothing wrong.

Foster now regretted that he had helped the poachers, although he thought he had made friends who would not betray him and might be useful.  He had met Border Scots in Ontario, and knew something about their character.  They were marked by a stern independence, inherited from their moss-trooper ancestors, and he thought Pete was a typical specimen of the virile race.  The man met him at the broken dyke, and leaving the road they turned east up the side of a sparkling burn.