On and on went Val Elster; and as soon
as an opening allowed, he struck into the brushwood on the right,
intending to make his way back by the river to Hartledon.
But not yet. Not until the shades of night should fall on the earth:
he would have a better chance of getting away from that shark in the
darkness than by daylight. He propped his back against a tree and waited,
hating himself all the time for his cowardice. With all his scrapes and
dilemmas, he had never been reduced to this sort of hiding.
And his pursuer had struck into the wood after him, passed straight
through it, though with some little doubt and difficulty, and was already
by the river-side, getting there just as Lord Hartledon was passing in
his skiff. Long as this may have seemed in telling, it took only a short
time to accomplish; still Lord Hartledon had not made quick way, or he
would have been further on his course in the race.
Would the sun ever set?--daylight ever pass? Val thought _not_, in his
impatience; and he ventured out of his shelter very soon, and saw for his
reward--the long coat and red whiskers by the river-side, their owner
conversing with a man. Val went further away, keeping the direction of
the stream: the brushwood might no longer be safe. He did not think they
had seen him: the man he dreaded had his back to him, the other his face.
And that other was Pike.
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