“This way, Gilbert. It's a strong p'int o' law, I've heerd tell, not that I know much o' law, Goodness knows, nor ever want to, but never mind, it's a strong p'int when there's two witnesses to a thing,—one to clinch what the t'other drives in; and you must have a show o' law to work on Alf. Barton, or I'm much mistaken!”
Gilbert reflected a moment. “It can do no harm,” he then said; “can you go with me, now?”
“Now's the time! If we only git the light of a farden-candle out o' him, it'll do me a mortal heap o' good; for with all this rakin' and scrapin' for nothin', I'm like a heart pantin' after the water-brooks, though a mouth would be more like it, to my thinkin', when a body's so awful dry as that comes to!”
The two thereupon took the foot-path down through the frozen fields and the dreary timber of the creek-side, to the Barton farm-house. As they approached the barn, they saw Alfred Barton sitting on a pile of straw and watching Giles, who was threshing wheat. He seemed a little surprised at their appearance; but as Gilbert and he had not met since their interview in the corn-field before the former's departure for Chester, he had no special cause for embarrassment.
“Come into the house,” he said, leading the way.
“No,” Gilbert answered, “I came here to speak with you privately. Will you walk down the lane?”
“No objection, of course,” said Barton, looking from Gilbert to Miss Lavender, with a mixture of curiosity and uneasiness. “Good news, I hope; got hold of Sandy's tracks, at last?”
“One of them.”
“Ah, you don't say so! Where?”
“Here!”