t amongst the bushes.

"Most likely a travelling tinker chap, sir, that comes this way now and
again," answered the policeman. "Name of Creasy--Tinner Creasy, the
folks call him. He's come here for many a year, at odd times. Camps out
with his pony and cart, and goes round the villages and farmsteads,
seeing if there's aught to mend, and selling 'em pots and pans and
such-like. Stops a week or two--sometimes longer."

"And poaches all he can lay hands on," added the gamekeeper. "Only he
takes good care never to go off this Hollow to do it."

"Have you made any inquiry of him?" asked Neale.

"We were just thinking of doing that, sir," replied the policeman. "He
roams up and down about here at nights, when he is here. But I don't
know how long he's been camping this time--it's very seldom I ever come
round this way myself--there's naught to come for."

"Let's go across there and speak to him," said Neale.

He and Betty followed the two men down the side of the promontory and
across the ups and downs of the Hollow, until they came to a deeper
depression fringed about by a natural palisading of hawthorn. And as
they drew near and could see into the dingle-like recess which the
tinker had selected for his camping-ground they became aware of a
savoury and appetizing odour, and the gamekeeper laughed.

"Cooking his supper, is Tinner Creasy!" he remarked. "And good stuff he
has in his pot, too!"

The tinker, now in full view, sat on a log near a tripod, beneath which
crackled a bright fire, burning under a black pot. The leaping flames
revealed a shrewd, weather-beaten face which turned sharply towards the
bushes as the visitors appeared; they also lighted up the tinker's cart
in the background, the browsing pony close by, the implements of the
tinner's trade strewn around on the grass. It was an alluring picture of
vagabond life, and Neale suddenly compared it with the dull existence of
folk who, like himself, were chained to a desk. He would have liked to
sit down by Tinner Creasy and ask him about his doings--but the
policeman had less poetical ideas.

"Hullo, Tinner!" said he, with easy familiarity. "Here again, what? I
thought we should be seeing your fire some night this spring. Been here
long?"

The tinker, who had remained seated on his log until he saw that a lady
was of the party, rose and touched the edge of his fur cap to Betty in a
way which indicated that his politeness was entirely for her.

"Since y