Turning into a winding bridle-path tucked between hedges of thorn
and hazels, he walked to a point where it crossed a patch of furze. At a
little distance a hand-bridge spanned the river, and gave access to the
eastern end of the village by a steep climb of the wooded cliff. The
path, in fact, was a short cut to that part of Steynholme.
He sat on a hump of rock, and waited. It was a boyish trick, but very
successful. Within three minutes, at the utmost, P.C. Robinson hurried
past, using a stalking, stealthy stride which was distinctly ludicrous.
The eyes of the two men met, but Grant alone was prepared.
"Hello, Robinson!" he cried cheerfully. "What's the rush? Surely our
rural peace has not been disturbed again?"
Robinson knew he had been "sold," but rose to the occasion.
"Excuse me, Mr. Grant," he puffed. "Can't wait now. Have an appointment.
I'll see you later."
Honor demanded that he should not relax that swift pace. Unhappily, the
path up the cliff was visible throughout from Grant's rock, so, on
reaching the summit, Robinson was a-boil in more ways than one.
Moreover, peeping through the first screen of trees that offered, he
had the mortification of seeing the man who had befooled him go back
the way he came.
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