Scannock clambered over the gate; he had sufficient sense not to try to unfasten the rusty catch. He walked slowly, on toes and heels, along the path. He felt the moonlight on him like a searchlight; the crunch of gravel underfoot sounded thunderous to him. In a panic he moved to the side of the path and walked on the turf. Even then he could hear the thud of his own feet. He came to the house and skirted it slowly. He counted: one window, two, the green side door; here was the kitchen window.

He fumbled with the spike of his jack-knife, and began to wrench at the woodwork above the catch. Force it, Mulrooney had told him, force it quickly, no one will hear. Scannock thought he had a better idea. He scraped and poked for a while to no purpose. He put the knife away and picked up a stone. He wrapped this in his dirty handkerchief and drew back to swing it at the window.

‘HEY.’ A voice, and boots crashing on the gravel. It was a strange voice.

He ran along the side of the house. The boots were crashing after him; the voice was shouting. There were voices inside the house, and doors thudding. The hedge was ahead of him, thick and impenetrable.

He turned to his left and ran along the hedge, back towards the road. He tried to keep his head down as he ran. The moonlight was pitiless. He could hear his pursuer cutting back diagonally across the turf, thus gaining on him. There were other people coming from the house now, and running up the path, parallel with the hedge he was following.

He was out of breath; the drink had ruined his wind; a stitch made running an agony.

He was back at the paddock fence, and scrambling over it. Leaning against the fence was a bicycle. The angry voice and the footsteps were very close behind. He jumped on to the bicycle and lurched across the paddock; slow going, and the man behind running almost as fast as he was pedalling. Through the gate now and on to the road; the wheels gripped the metalled surface and the bicycle swooped away. Scannock glanced over his shoulder and glimpsed a police uniform. He pedalled harder; the voices faded behind him.

A mile along the road he dismounted and flung the bicycle into the hedge. He left the road and cut across the fields. They had seen the uniform; perhaps they had seen his face. He had to get back into camp without passing the sentry. They would telephone and there would be a roll-call. He had to get back to his hut before them.