Whether he was soon or late he had no idea or how long it was that
he had raced like this along the lonely country road at the full
extremity and limit of his strength.
He dared not take time to glance at his watch, for he knew the
fraction of a second he would thus lose might mean the difference
between in time and too late. On he ran still and presently he
left the path and took the fields.
But he had forgotten that though the distance might be shorter the
going would be harder, and on the rough grass he stumbled, and
across the bare ground damp earth clung to his boots and hindered
him as though each foot had become laden with lead.
His speed was slower, his effort greater if possible, and when he
came to a hedge he made no effort to leap, but crashed through it
as best he could and broke or clambered or tumbled a path for
himself.
Now Ottam's Wood was very near, and reeling and staggering like a
man wounded to the death but driven by inexorable fate, he plunged
on still, and there was a little froth gathering at the corners of
his mouth and from one of his nostrils came a thin trickle of blood.
Yet still he held on, though in truth he hardly knew any longer why
he ran or what his need for haste, and as he came to the wood round
a spur where a cluster of young beeches grew, he saw a tall, upright,
elderly man walking there, well-dressed and of a neat, soldier-like
appearance.
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