At Arunvale the station-master beckoned him into the office.
"It's right, sir," he said keenly. "Chukkers and Ikey come down this morning. Two-thirty's the time accordin' to my information. I've got a trap waitin' for you outside. Ginger Harris'll drive you. He was a lad at Putnam's one time o' day. Now he keeps the Three Cocks by the bridge. He don't like Jaggers any better than me. Only lay low and mind your eye. Arunvale's stiff with 'em."
Silver wished to know more, but he was not to be gratified.
The station-clerk, as full of mystery as Monkey Brand himself, bustled him out of the office, finger to his lips.
"Trap's outside, sir," he whispered. "I won't come with you. There's eyes everywhere—tongues, too."
Outside was a gig, and in it sat a red-faced fly-man in a bottle-green coat and old top-hat, who made room for the young man at his side.
They drove over the bridge through the town, up the steep, into the vast rolling Park with the clumps of brown beech-woods that ran down to the river and the herds of red deer dotting the deep valleys.
As they passed through the north gate of the Park, Ginger slowed down to a walk.
"If I've time it right," he said, "she should be doin' her gallop while we walks along the ridge. Don't show too keen, sir."
A long sallow man sitting on the roadside at the edge of the wood eyed them.