The road from Crawley curves gently upwards to the upland heather-clad plateau which extends for many miles in every direction. Strings of pedestrians, most of them so weary and dust-covered that it was evident that they had walked the thirty miles from London during the night, were plodding along by the sides of the road or trailing over the long mottled slopes of the moorland. A horseman, fantastically dressed in green and splendidly mounted, was waiting at the crossroads, and as he spurred towards us I recognised the dark, handsome face and bold black eyes of Mendoza.
“I am waiting here to give the office, Sir Charles,” said he. “It’s down the Grinstead road, half a mile to the left.”
“Very good,” said my uncle, reining his mares round into the cross-road.
“You haven’t got your man there,” remarked Mendoza, with something of suspicion in his manner.
“What the devil is that to you?” cried Belcher, furiously.
“It’s a good deal to all of us, for there are some funny stories about.”
“You keep them to yourself, then, or you may wish you had never heard them.”
“All right, Jem! Your breakfast don’t seem to have agreed with you this morning.”
“Have the others arrived?” asked my uncle, carelessly.
“Not yet, Sir Charles. But Tom Oliver is there with the ropes and stakes. Jackson drove by just now, and most of the ring-keepers are up.”