When they reached the high road Bolton said to the servant,
“If the constables should ask who gave this information, you know my name, old woman?”
“No, I don’t, kind gentleman,” was the croaking reply.
“You do not think I am Bob Bertram, then?” said the stranger.
“That I cannot say,” answered the old woman, “for you keep your hat so far over your face.”
“Well, tell them one Mr. Smith, of Portsmouth, called and told Farmer Bertram all about it.”
“I will, kind gentleman.”
“Make haste. Good night.”
Betsy went towards the village, and Bolton turned his horse’s head in a contrary direction and galloped away.
He had not gone more than a quarter of a mile when a bend in the road hid him from Betsy’s view.