He knew Shepard and he knew
something of his ways. Moreover, his was the blood of the greatest of
all trailers, and it was incumbent upon him to find the spy. Yet he was
trailing in a city and not in a forest. In spite of everything he clung
to his work.
On a later night about one o'clock in the morning he was near the
building that housed army headquarters, and he noticed a figure come from
some bushes near it. He instantly stepped back into the shadow and saw
a man glance up and down the street, probably to see if it was clear.
It was a night to favor the spy, dark, with heavy clouds and gusts of
rain.
The figure, evidently satisfied that no one was watching, walked briskly
down the street, and Harry's heart beat hard against his side. He knew
that it was Shepard, the king of spies, against whom he had matched
himself. He could not mistake, despite the darkness, his figure, his
walk and the swing of his powerful shoulders.
His impulse was to cry for help, to shout that the spy was here, but
at the first sound of his voice Shepard would at once dart into the
shrubbery, and escape through the alleys of Richmond. No, his old
feeling that it was a duel between Shepard and himself was right, and so
they must fight it out.
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