Cursing, Philip forged ahead.  The carpet of dry twigs beneath him had betrayed his approach and Themar was running wildly through the forest.

On and on they went, stumbling and flying through the moonlit wood to the towpath.  But Philip was much the better runner and soon caught the fleeing cyclist by the collar with a grip of steel.

“Poynter!” panted Themar, staring.

“At your service!” Mr. Poynter assured him and politely begged instant and accurate knowledge of a number of things, of a knife and a bullet, of Themar’s spying, of a cuff, of the man by the fire who read Herodotus, of a motorcyclist seeking for days to overtake a nomad.

“I—­I dare not tell,” faltered Themar, moistening his lips.  “I—­I am bound by an oath—­”

“To spy and steal and murder!”

Themar stared sullenly at the river, gray now with the coming dawn.  His dark face was drawn and haggard.

And again Mr. Poynter shot a volley of questions and awaited the answers with dangerous quiet.

Shaking, Themar refused again to answer.  With even more quietness and courtesy Philip obligingly gave him a final opportunity and finding Themar white and inexorable, smiled.

“Very well, then,” said Mr. Poynter warmly, “I’ll take it out of your hide.”  Which he proceeded to do with that consummate thoroughness which characterized his every action, husbanding the strength of his long, lean arms until a knife appeared in Themar’s hand.  Then in deadly silence Mr. Poynter reduced his treacherous assailant to a battered hulk upon the towpath.

A mule bell tinkled in the quiet.

Upstream on the path between canal and river two mules appeared with a man slouching heavily behind them.  The towline led to a grimy scow which loomed out of the misty stillness like a heavier drift of the dawn itself.

“Hello!” Philip hailed the mule driver.

“What’s wantin’?” asked the man and halted.

Philip indicated Themar with his foot.

“Here is a gentleman,” he explained, “whom I discovered lurking about my camp a while ago.  He showed me his knife and I’ve mussed him up a bit.”

The mule-driver bent over Themar and sharply scanned the dark, foreign face.

“One o’ them damned black-and-tans, eh?” he growled.  “They’re too ready with their knives.  What ye goin’ to do with him?”

“I’m wondering,” shrugged Philip, smoothing his rumpled hair back from his forehead with the palm of his hand, “if you’ll permit me to pay his passage to a hospital, the farther away, the better.”

The mule-driver glanced searchingly at Mr. Poynter’s face.  Apparently satisfied, he cupped his mouth with his hands and called “Ho, Jem!”

“Jem” jerked sharply at the tiller and presently the scow scraped the shore.  The mule-driver consigned the care of his mules to Philip and scrambled down the grassy bank to the edge of the water.