gret
their treatment of me, and already my words have come true."

"How so?" I asked.

The old man put on a very knowing expression.

"Because I could tell them what they are dying to know; but
nothing would induce me to help the rascals in any way."

I had been casting round for some excuse by which I could get
away from his gossip, but now I began to wish to hear more of it.
I had seen enough of the contrary nature of the old sinner to
understand that any strong sign of interest would be the surest
way to stop his confidences.

"Some poaching case, no doubt?" said I, with an indifferent
manner.

"Ha, ha, my boy, a very much more important matter than that!
What about the convict on the moor?"

I started. "You don't mean that you know where he is?" said I.

"I may not know exactly where he is, but I am quite sure that I
could help the police to lay their hands on him. Has it never
struck you that the way to catch that man was to find out where
he got his food, and so trace it to him?"

He certainly seemed to be getting uncomfortably near the truth.
"No doubt," said I; "but how do you know that he is anywhere upon
the moor?"

"I know it because I have seen with my own eyes the messenger who
takes him his food."

My heart sank for Barrymore. It was a serious thing to be in the
power of this spiteful old busybody. But his next remark took a
weight from my mind.

"You'll be surprised to hear that his food is taken to him by a
child. I see him every day through my telescope upon the roof. He
passes along the same path at the same hour, and to whom should
he be going except to the convict?"

Here was luck indeed! And yet I suppressed all appearance of
interest. A child! Barrymore had said that our unknown was
supplied by a boy. It was on his track, and not upon the
convict's, that Frankland had stumbled. If I could get his
knowledge it might save me a long and weary hunt. But incredulity
and indifference were evidently my strongest cards.

"I should say that it was much more likely that it was the son of
one of the moorland shepherds taking out his father's dinner."

The least appearance of opposition struck fire out of the old
autocrat. His eyes looked malignantly at me, and his gray
whiskers bristled like those of an angry cat.

"Indeed, sir!" said he, pointing out over the wide-stretching
moor. "Do you see that Black Tor over yonder? Well, do you see
the low hill beyond with the thornbush upon it?