There were no marks of small feet in the dust on the path and the only defined track was that of a bicycle. She looked again carefully and noticed the mark of one tyre only which seemed odd, until she realized that the other tyre must be flat and responsible for the wavy, blurred track which sometimes crossed the line of the hard tyre.

"Come here, Macbeth," she called. "I've been clever. Someone is pushing a bike with a big puncture along here in front of us. I should think those flashes were the sun on the handle-bars. What do you think, Mackie?... So do I... No. I'm 'fraid it's not the twins, but whoever it is may have seen them. Let's catch him up and see."

But all the same she was not sure if this was the right thing to do. She had no watch, but by the sun guessed it to be nearly four, and that David and his party would be coming up the Dingle soon and expecting to meet her. She looked down into the valley and found that she could still see the cross roads where they had found the conker; but it was obviously going to be very difficult to get down, for there was no sign of a path and the hillsides above the woods were steep and rough. She hesitated, wondering what was the sensible thing to do. She wished David could decide for her - not because she was unused to making up her own mind, but because she was beginning to rely upon his decisions in all their adventures. Should she forget the cyclist - who doubtless was miles away by now - and get down into the Dingle as quickly as possible to meet the others, or should she hurry on, catch the stranger and ask if he had seen the twins? She was just thinking that she ought to do the latter when the problem was solved for her.

She had not realized that, as she was standing bareheaded in the sunshine in a bright blue shirt with not even a bush or a tree near, she must be visible from a very considerable distance, and that although she might not be able to see the stranger in the haze ahead, he might have seen her! Macbeth barked sharply, and now when she looked up she saw a tiny figure far ahead. As she watched it seemed that the figure was coming back towards her, but whether or not it was the cyclist she could not tell, as there were no more flashes.

Then it looked as if the stranger waved, but when a wandering breeze brought with it the faint and plaintive call of the Peewit, Peter's doubt became a certainty.

It was Tom Ingles! Good old Tom, with his honest, cheeky, sunburned face grinning delightedly as he ran forward the last few yards and then stopped rather shyly as they met.