Its light, showering softly through
the trees as the night wind swayed the branches, fell presently upon
the camp and the face of the cyclist.
It was Themar.
Now as Philip watched, Themar crouched suddenly and fell to staring at
the muffled figure by the camp fire. For an interval he crouched
motionless; then with infinite caution he moved to the right. A branch
swept his cap back from his forehead and Philip saw now that his face
was white and staring.
And in that instant as he glanced at the horrified face of the
Houdanian, Philip knew. The stained skin, the smooth-shaven chin and
lip of the minstrel--if Themar had found them puzzling, the revealment
had come to him, as it had come to Philip, in a flash of bewilderment.
With a bound, the startled American was on his feet, stealing rapidly
toward the man by the tree. To the spying, the mystery, the infernal
trickery and masquerading which dogged his lady's trail, Themar held
the key, wherefore--
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.
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