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A deadly stillness enveloped the plain, making all sounds staccato: the rhythmical footfall of the horses, the hoarse notes of crows wheeling through the twilight like uncanny heralds of night, the croaking of crickets in the scrub ahead.

Dick was recalled to the antipodes by a mild query from his mate.

“Are you asleep, driver?”

“No.”

“You haven’t noticed any one ahead of us this afternoon on horseback?”

“No; why?”

“Because here are some one’s tracks,” said Flint, pointing to a fresh horse-trail on the side of the road.”

Edmonstone stretched across to look. It was difficult in the dusk to distinguish the trail, which was the simple one of a horse walking.

“I saw no one,” he said; “but during the last hour it would have been impossible to see any one, as close to the scrub as we are now. Whoever it is, he must have struck the track hereabouts somewhere, or we should have seen his trail before sundown.”

“Whoever it is,” said Flint, “we shall see him in a minute. Don’t you hear him? He is still at a walk.”