Once he had even started, but at the edge of the water where
his boat lay he halted, deterred by the knowledge that his safer course
lay in facing what he must face sooner or later. Now that he was known to
be alive it were easier to deal with one man than with the pack of
bloodhounds which that one man might set upon him. Always the personal
element entered in--it was weak hope, but the only one. He might win
Ledyard; he could not win the pack!
When Mary McAdam knocked on Farwell's door he thought the time had come,
but the sight of the distracted mother steadied him. Here was something
for him to do, something to carry him away from his lonely forebodings.
"Come in, Mrs. McAdam. Rest yourself. You look sorely in need of rest."
It was the early evening of a hot day. It was lighter out of doors than
in the cottage, for the shades were drawn at Farwell's windows; he
disliked the idea of being watched from without.
"I can't rest, Master Farwell, till I've done my task," said the poor
soul, sinking into the nearest chair. "And it's to get your help I've
come."
"I'll do what I can," murmured Farwell.
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