He reached the station undecided where to go.  A Midland express would shortly start for the south, but it would be difficult to leave a clew in the big manufacturing towns, and there was a stopping train soon after the other on the North British line, which traverses the Border hills.  Foster preferred this neighborhood, because he was beginning to know it and it was not far from the Garth, but after a few moments’ consideration went to the Midland ticket window.

A row of passengers were waiting their turn, and as he took his place in the line a man crossed the floor and stood behind him.  There was nothing suspicious in this, but the fellow had not come in by the entrance hall, and if he had been in the station, it was strange he had not got his ticket earlier.  When his turn came, Foster asked for a ticket to Appleby in a husky voice, and when the booking clerk demanded, “Where?” looked over his shoulder.  The man behind was leaning forward, as if to catch his reply.

“Appleby,” said Foster, who had seen by a railway map that the town was not far off, and getting his ticket, joined the passengers on the platform.  As he did so, the long train came in, but knowing that it would be a minute or two before the engine was changed he walked up the platform leisurely, looking into the carriages.  There was some bustle, for people were getting out and in, and he kept out of sight among them until the guard waved his flag.  Then he stepped behind a truck loaded with milk-cans as the train rolled away.

If the man he had noticed had been watching him, he thought he had put him off the track, but he had no time to lose if he meant to catch the stopping train.  He got in as it started, choosing an old carriage without a corridor, so that nobody could spy on him.  They jolted over the crossings, the old red wall of the city rolled by and dropped behind, and as they ran out towards the open country across the Eden, Foster thoughtfully lighted a cigarette.  He had tried to put his pursuers on his partner’s supposititious trail, but it began to look as if they were not following Lawrence but him.  His injured hand could hardly have escaped notice, and he was not really like Lawrence, of whom Daly would no doubt have given his agents a good description.

He wondered who was on his track, and with what object.  Daly would gain nothing by molesting him, and he could not see why the police should take an interest in his movements, but he was being watched, and felt uneasy.  He was not sure that he had sent the last man off to Appleby, although he hoped he had.

The train, which stopped now and then, ran across flat fields until it entered the valley of the Esk.  The valley narrowed as they sped through the woods beside the stream, and when the line turned up the water of Liddel bleak hills began to rise ahead.  The trees and rich cultivation were gradually left behind, the air got keener, and lonely moors rolled down to the winding dale.  It got dark as they followed the river, and soon afterwards Foster alighted at a small station.  Nobody else left the train except two or three country people, and he went to an inn in the straggling little town.