The week after he walked the road again, and this time he overtook Miss Redmayne, who was resolutely wheeling her bicycle back in the way by which she had come.
“Let me wheel it for you,” he said. “Whither bound?”
“I’m going back to Rochester,” she said. “I generally ride over to see my aunts at Felsenden on Saturdays, but I fear I must give it up, or go by train; this road isn’t safe.”
“Not safe?” he said with an agitation which could not escape her notice.
“Not safe,” she repeated. “Mr Brent, there is a very malicious person in this part of the country—a perfectly dreadful person.”
“What do you mean?” he managed to ask.
“These three Saturdays I have come along this road; each time I have had a puncture. And each time I have found embedded in my tyre the evidence of some one’s malice. This is one piece of evidence.” She held out her ungloved hand. On its pink palm lay a good sized tin-tack. “Once might be accident; twice a coincidence; three times is too much. The road’s impossible.”
