footprints there--he could feel them. But he hadn't a match with
him, and the place was in deep shade.

He stood up and listened, thought he heard a faint sound farther
along, and ran. There was no use now in going quietly; what
counted most was speed.

Once more he caught sight of the white form fleeing from him like
the very wraith it would have him believe it. Then he lost it
again; and when he reached the spot where it disappeared, he fell
headlong, his feet tangled in some white stuff. He swore
audibly, picked himself up, and held the cloth where the moon
shone full upon it. It looked like a sheet, or something of the
sort, and near one edge was a moist patch of red. He stared at
it dismayed, crumpled the cloth into a compact bundle, tucked it
under his arm, and ran on, his ears strained to catch some sound
to guide him.

"Well, anyhow, I didn't kill him," he muttered uneasily as he
crawled through a fence into the orchard. "He's making a pretty
swift get-away for a fellow that's been shot."

In the orchard the patches of moonlight were larger, and across
one of them he glimpsed a dark object, running wearily. Grant
repressed an impulse to shout, and used the breath for an extra
burst of speed. The ghost was making for the fence again, as if
it would double upon its trail and reach some previously chosen
refuge. Grant turned and ran also toward the fence, guessing
shrewdly that the fugitive would head for the place where the
wire could be spread about, and a beaten trail led from there