Here--
He moved carefully, and stood with his back against a tree.
Not a sound came from the farm buildings. Willy Cameron's progress,
too, was noiseless. With no way to tell the lapse of time, and
gauging it by his war experience, when an hour had apparently
passed by, he knew that Cameron had been gone about ten minutes.
Time dragged on. A cow, unmilked, lowed plaintively once or twice.
A September night breeze set the dying leaves on the trees to
rustling, and stirred the dried ones about his feet. Pink's mind,
gradually reassured, turned to other things. He thought of Lily
Cardew, for one. Like Willy Cameron, he knew he would always love
her, but unlike Willy, the first pain of her loss was gone. He
was glad that time was over. He was glad that she was at home
again, safe from those-- Some one was moving near him, passing
within twenty feet. Whoever it was was stepping cautiously but
blunderingly. It was not Cameron, then. He was a footfall only,
not even an outline. Before Pink could decide on a line of action,
the sound was lost.
Every sense acute, he waited. He had decided that if the incident
were repeated, he would make an effort to get the fellow from
behind, but there was no return.
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