There was Haytersbank gully opening down its green entrance among the warm brown bases of the cliffs.  Below, in the sheltered brushwood, among the last year’s withered leaves, some primroses might be found.  He half thought of gathering Sylvia a posy of them, and rushing up to the farm to make a little farewell peace-offering.  But on looking at his watch, he put all thoughts of such an action out of his head; it was above an hour later than he had supposed, and he must make all haste on to Hartlepool.  Just as he was approaching this gully, a man came dashing down, and ran out some way upon the sand with the very force of his descent; then he turned to the left and took the direction of Hartlepool a hundred yards or so in advance of Philip.  He never stayed to look round him, but went swiftly and steadily on his way.  By the peculiar lurch in his walk—­by everything—­Philip knew it was the specksioneer, Kinraid.

Now the road up Haytersbank gully led to the farm, and nowhere else.  Still any one wishing to descend to the shore might do so by first going up to the Robsons’ house, and skirting the walls till they came to the little slender path down to the shore.  But by the farm, by the very house-door they must of necessity pass.  Philip slackened his pace, keeping under the shadow of the rock.  By-and-by Kinraid, walking on the sunlight open sands, turned round and looked long and earnestly towards Haytersbank gully.  Hepburn paused when he paused, but as intently as he looked at some object above, so intently did Hepburn look at him.  No need to ascertain by sight towards whom his looks, his thoughts were directed.  He took off his hat and waved it, touching one part of it as if with particular meaning.  When he turned away at last, Hepburn heaved a heavy sigh, and crept yet more into the cold dank shadow of the cliffs.  Each step was now a heavy task, his sad heart tired and weary.  After a while he climbed up a few feet, so as to mingle his form yet more completely with the stones and rocks around.  Stumbling over the uneven and often jagged points, slipping on the sea-weed, plunging into little pools of water left by the ebbing tide in some natural basins, he yet kept his eyes fixed as if in fascination on Kinraid, and made his way almost alongside of him.  But the last hour had pinched Hepburn’s features into something of the wan haggardness they would wear when he should first be lying still for ever.

And now the two men were drawing near a creek, about eight miles from Monkshaven.  The creek was formed by a beck (or small stream) that came flowing down from the moors, and took its way to the sea between the widening rocks.  The melting of the snows and running of the flooded water-springs above made this beck in the early spring-time both deep and wide.  Hepburn knew that here they both must take a path leading inland to a narrow foot-bridge about a quarter of a mile up the stream; indeed from this point, owing