“Now go,” said Peace. “For I don’t want you to be seen by anybody, if we can help it. Remember, from eleven to half-past.”
“I’ll not forget.” And with that promise the gipsy sheered off, leaving Peace alone in the boat.
“A good faithful fellow,” he murmured, after his friend’s departure. “It’s not many I put trust in, but he’s fair and square enough.”
As the shades of evening descended Peace moored his boat, and threaded his way through the bye-roads and green lanes. He sought seclusion, which he succeeded in obtaining—seclusion till the hour arrived which had been appointed for the robbery.
He found the time hang heavily enough on his hands, and hardly knew how to employ himself; waiting and loitering about is not pleasant under the most favourable circumstances; but in the dead of the night, enshrouded by dark shadows, and with no other sounds but the splashing of water and the mournful sighing of the trees, the watching and waiting was inexpressibly dull.
However, it had to be endured like all other human ills and trials, and Peace endeavoured to put the best face on the matter. He trolled in a low tone a popular ditty, and strove to be as cheerful as possible.
It was some satisfaction to him that he had not met with a solitary individual in his wanderings—this was just as he could have wished.
At length the appointed time drew nearer and nearer. Peace made for the back of the silk manufactory, and waited patiently for the sounds of footsteps.
Bill was true to his appointment. Presently his companion heard the rustling of the decayed leaves which strewed the ground, and he was at no loss to conclude that his confederate was approaching.
He was correct in his surmise.