Foster lighted a cigarette and drawing his maimed hand into the sleeve of his mackintosh, leaned against the side of the bridge and watched the Selkirk road.  It was not cold and the street was well lighted by the windows of the shops.  Briskly moving people streamed across the bridge, as if the factory hands were going home from work, but nobody seemed interested in Foster and the policeman who stood by the guide-post paid him no attention.  He thought about going back to the hotel when a car, traveling rather fast, came down the road and pulled up close by.

Foster leaned quietly against the bridge and did not turn his head, but saw Daly sitting beside the driver; the half-dried mud that was thickly crusted about the car indicated a long journey.  An abrupt movement might be dangerous, although he did not think Daly expected to find him or Featherstone calmly lounging about the street.  The driver beckoned the policeman and Foster heard him ask if one crossed the bridge for Langholm.

The man told him to turn to the right, and after speaking to the driver Daly asked if there was a garage and a good hotel near.  The policeman gave him some directions, and when the car turned round and rolled away Foster followed.  He passed close by the policeman and, taking advantage of the sociable Scottish custom, nodded and remarked that it was a fine night.  The man answered civilly, with a careless glance at Foster, who went on, feeling satisfied with his experiment.  It was obvious that no inquiries about him had been telegraphed to Hawick and he had only Daly to deal with.  This was curious, if the police were really anxious to find him.

The garage was open and Foster asked a man if he could hire a motor bicycle.  The fellow said he thought so, but the manager was out, and Foster strolled about the room.  Daly’s driver was refilling the lamps with carbide, and when he finished asked for petrol.

“Ye’re for the road again,” the man who brought the tin remarked.

“For Langholm,” replied the driver.  “I don’t expect we’ll go farther to-night, but I must have things ready if the boss wants to go on.”

Foster hoped the other would ask where they had come from, but he did not do so, and next moment Daly walked down some steps at the other end of the room.  Knowing that a quick retreat might betray him, Foster stood still and examined a lamp he picked up.  Daly crossed the floor, passing within a yard or two.

“You can fix her all right, I suppose?” he said to the driver.

The latter said something about a sparking-plug, and when Daly stooped over the engine the light of a lamp shone into his face.  He was a big, handsome man, but Foster, studying him closely, noted his hard and greedy eyes.  For a moment, he came near forgetting the need for caution and giving way to a fit of rage.  The fellow had it in his power to bring disgrace upon upright people and drag an honored name in the mire.  He could humble Alice Featherstone’s pride and ruin the brother she loved.