began to walk on. The young labourer walked at his side, obviously glad to have living flesh and blood near him.
"Why should it give you a right bad turn any more than anybody else?" asked the gamekeeper presently. "Other folk saw it as well as you, you know, young fellow."
"Aye, but I were t' first to see it," answered the lad. "I were t' varry first. An' ye see, Mestur Justice, bi all accounts, I were t' last to see yon theer Pippany Webster alive. But theer's noabody but me knows that."
The gamekeeper's ears pricked themselves instinctively, and his heart gave a smart bound. He made no reply, and showed no sign of special interest for the moment, but after they had walked on a little way further down the hill, he turned and looked at his companion with an affectation of concern and sympathy.
"Dear, dear!" he said. "Aye, I see you do look bad, Moreby, my lad. Here, let's turn across this meadow to my cottage, and I'll give you a drop of something to pull you round. You'll do with it."
"Why, thankin' you kindly, Mestur Justice," replied Moreby. "I were just thinkin' o' turnin' into t' Bear, like, to hey' a drop o' summat—I feel like I did once when I fainted when t' doctors were settin' a brokken arm 'at I happened."
"I'll give you some better stuff than you'd get at the Bear," said Justice. "Here, come on."
He opened a gate by the wayside, and conducting his companion across a meadow, which lay at the back of the village street, took him through the garden of the gamekeeper's cottage into Mrs. Justice's best parlour by a side door. Mrs. Justice was just then in the kitchen preparing tea; Justice passed on to her, obtained a lamp, water and glasses, and telling her to leave him alone for as long as he remained in the parlour, went back and took down a bottle of whisky from a corner cupboard. He poured out a liberal dose for Moreby, and helped himself to a smaller one.
"There, drink that, my lad," he said, with friendly hospitality. "That 'll pull you round—that's better stuff than you'd get at the Bear for love or money. It's some whisky, this, that my lord sent down a month or two since—six bottles of it for a present: it's what he drinks himself, is this."
Moreby gazed at his glass with awed interest.
"Well, here's my best respects, sir," he said, and drank. The colour came back to his cheeks, and his eyes sparkled. He set down his glass, drawing a long breath. "Aye, I wanted summat like that, Mestur Justice—I felt all dithery, like. Ye see, mestur, it come over me all of a sudden when t' body were browt up and we knew 'at it were Pippany Webster 'at just as I believe I were t' last to see him alive, so I were t' first to find him dead—what? Summat like what my owd mother, if she'd been alive, wo'd ha' called a judgment, mestur."
"Aye, just so," observed the gamekeeper, calmly lighting his pipe and passing his tobacco over to his guest. "Here, I see you've got a pipe in your waistcoat pocket there—have a bit o' bacca—that'll do your nerves good. And so," he continued, when Moreby had begun to smoke, "and so you think you were the last to see Webster alive, were you, my lad?"
Moreby took another pull at his glass and grinned.
"Well, I niver heard o' nobody i' t' village 'at iver did see him after I did," he answered. "I niver said nowt about it, 'cause ye see, Mestur Justice, I hed mi reasons for sayin' nowt. But I'll tell you what it wor, 'cause it doesn't matter now—me an' t' young woman's concluded to break t' affair off, mutual, ye see, sir."
"Oh!" said Justice carelessly. "So there was a young woman in it, was there?"
Moreby grinned again, wagging his head.
"It were t' blacksmith dowter, ye see," he said, with a wink. "Her an' me, we wor doing a bit o' courtin' at that time, but we didn't want nobody to know, 'cause her father 'ud ha' been on to us. Howsomiver, one Sunda' evenin' a while back, her an' me hed met i' one o' them fields o' Perris's, near t' Cherry-trees, and we wor in a nice comfortable place i' t' hedgerow, wheer nobody could see us, and we see'd Pippany come across t' fields and mak' for Cherry-trees, and we see'd him sort o' spyin' about t' outside o' stackyard, and lookin' ower t' wall, and at last he went behind t' stacks, and then we niver see'd him agen, tho' we were theer till t' dark come on. And I niver heerd tell o' nobody ever seein' t' man efter that, sir—at least not i' Martinsthorpe. I kep' mi ears oppen, but I niver heerd 'at he wor seen bi onnybody. An' now then, I shan't mind who I tell, nor yit will t' blacksmith dowter."
Justice rose and put away the whisky bottle.
"Don't you say a word, my Tad, just yet," he said, laying his hand on Moreby's shoulder. "Keep it to yourself till I tell you to speak. Pippany Webster was murdered!—and somebody'll swing for it. Keep quiet till I come to you."
Then he sent Moreby home, bidding him to eat a good supper, to drink no more, and to go to bed early, and Moreby, much impressed, promised, and went. When he had gone Justice ate and drank heartily, and with another curt word to his wife mounted his pony and rode off to the market-town and the police.
Chapter XX
On the Friday of Cattle Show week in London that year a man, dressed after the fashion of a fairly well-to-do countryman and carrying in his hand an ash-plant stick, stepped off a tram-car in the neighbourhood of Pentonville Prison, and after staring about him for a moment entered a public-house and asked for a glass of ale. And waiting until the white-aproned barman appeared to have a temporary cessation from his duties, he summoned him with an apologetic grin and a shy nod.
"I say, mister," he said, leaning over the bar in a confidential attitude. "You'll excuse me, but I'm a stranger hereabouts. Where's that place or whatever it is that they call the Cal—Cal summat or other? Sort o' market, ye know."
The barman, from sheer force of habit, picked up a glass and begun to polish it vigorously.
"Caledonian Market," he said carelessly. "Third street on your left as you go up the road—you can't miss it."
"I'm much obliged, mister. Is there aught much to see there, like?" said the stranger. "I expect you'll know it, living so near."
"Plenty to see for such as likes that sort of thing," answered the barman shortly.
The stranger tapped the side of his boot with his ashplant and looked still more inclined to be confidential.
"Aye—why, ye see," he said, in the lazy fashion of a man who, making holiday, feels that time is of no consequence, "ye see, I come up to t' Cattle Show yonder at t' Agricultural Hall, and of course there's naught to see theer on a Friday, and my ticket isn't up till Sunda', and there were a man I met theer yesterday he says, If you want to see one o' the most remarkable sights o' London,' he says, go an' see t' Caledonian Market to-morrow morning. It's near Pentonville Gaol,' he says. 'Get out o' t' tram-car there, and any 'll tell you just where t' spot is.' And so I thowt I'd just tak' a glass o' ale and ask mi directions, an'—"
"Third street on the left," repeated the barman, and moved off to another part of the counter with a jerk of his head in the direction indicated.
The countryman drank off his ale and went slowly out, musing on the strange fact that never ever seemed to be inclined to have a hit of friendly talk. He lounged leisurely up the road, staring at the unlovely lines of the great prison on the opposite side, and marvelling at the groups of idlers who hung about its gates and at the street corners. And suddenly he was aware of streams of folk making up the incline of another
