“I don’t know.”
“But I think I do.”
“You don’t mean that!”
“Yes, I do. They were the chief evidence in proof of Aveline Gatliffe’s identity, and this swell, whoever he may be, has reason for not wishing that identity to be established. Who, and what is he?”
“Well, that I am not at liberty to make known,” returned the gipsy. “He’s a swell in his way, but he aint of much account as far as I can learn—leastways, he’s a hot-un in many ways, so I’ve been told. I met him by chance when I was with my first gov’nor, and he weren’t much to boast on.”
“Oh, he has a motive, depend upon that, and a strong one too, I should say; but it matters not—it does not concern either of us.
“Not a bit.”
Peace and the gipsy had now become what might be termed cronies or pals. To say the truth, the latter had displayed a considerable amount of faithfulness and disinterested friendship for our hero—much more than he really deserved.
In the afternoon of that day “Bandy-legged Bill” brought round his pony trap and took Peace out for a drive.
During this little excursion our hero had an eye to business. He never failed to look out for houses which he thought best adapted to his purpose. He preferred those which stood in their own grounds, detached from any others, and those also that were not near the high road, along which a policeman might be passing.