`True.' They rode along silently for a long weary time. Coggan carried an old pinchbeck repeater which he had inherited from some genius in his family; and it now struck one. He lighted another match, and examined the ground again.

`'Tis a canter now,' he said, throwing away the light. `A twisty, rickety pace for a gig. The fact is, they overdrove her at starting; we shall catch `em yet.

Again they hastened on, and entered Blackmore Vale. Coggan's watch struck two. When they looked again the hoof-marks were so spaced as to form a sort of zigzag if united, like the lamps along a street.

`That's a trot, I know,' said Gabriel.

`Only a trot now,' said Coggan cheerfully. `We shall overtake him in time.'

They pushed rapidly on for yet two or three miles. `Ah! a moment,' said Jan. `Let's see how she was driven up this hill. `Twill help us.' A light was promptly struck upon his gaiters as before, and the examination made.

`Hurrah!' said Coggan. `She walked up here - and well she might. We shall get them in two miles, for a crown.

They rode three, and listened. No sound was to be heard save a millpond trickling hoarsely through a hatch, and suggesting gloomy possibilities of drowning by jumping in. Gabriel dismounted when they came to a turning. The tracks were absolutely the only guide as to the direction that they now had, and great caution was necessary to avoid confusing them with some others which had made their appearance lately.

`What does this mean? - though I guess,' said Gabriel, looking up at Coggan as he moved the match over the ground about the turning. Coggan, who, no less than the panting horses, had latterly shown signs of weariness, again scrutinized the mystic characters. This time only three were of the regular horseshoe shape. Every fourth was a dot.

He screwed up his face, and emitted a long `whew-w-w!'

`Lame,' said Oak.

`Yes. Dainty is lamed; the near-foot-afore,' said Coggan slowly staring still at the footprints.

`We'll push on,' said Gabriel, remounting his humid steed.

Although the road along its greater part had been as good as any turnpike-road in the country, it was nominally only a byway. The last turning had brought them into the high road leading to Bath. Coggan recollected himself.

`We shall have him now!' he exclaimed.

`Where?'

`Sherton Turnpike. The keeper of that gate is the sleepiest man between here and london - Dan Randall, that's his name - knowed en for years, when he was at Casterbridge gate. Between the lameness aid the gate 'tis a done job.'

They now advanced with extreme caution. Nothing was said until, against a shady background of foliage, five white bars were visible, crossing their route a little way ahead.

`Hush - we are almost close!' said Gabriel.