Some one had paused at the farther edge of the maple brake and
dismounted, as she had, for a more intimate enjoyment of the place. It
was John Armitage, tapping his riding-boot idly with his crop as he
leaned against a tree and viewed the miniature valley.
He was a little below her, so that she saw him quite distinctly,
and caught a glimpse of his horse pawing, with arched neck, in the
bridle-path behind him. She had no wish to meet him there and turned to
steal back to her horse when a movement in the maples below caught her
eye. She paused, fascinated and alarmed by the cautious stir of the
undergrowth. The air was perfectly quiet; the disturbance was not caused
by the wind. Then the head and shoulders of a man were disclosed as he
crouched on hands and knees, watching Armitage. His small head and big
body as he crept forward suggested to Shirley some fantastic monster of
legend, and her heart beat fast with terror as a knife flashed in his
hand. He moved more rapidly toward the silent figure by the tree, and
still Shirley watched wide-eyed, her figure tense and trembling, the hand
that held the crop half raised to her lips, while the dark form rose and
poised for a spring.
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