"Or of Rupert Devereux?"
"No, I ain't 'eard of 'im. D'ye think I reads the sassiety papers down 'ere to know where all the fine folks is, 'cos I don't."
I was silent for a few minutes, thinking. Of what use was this fellow's confession to me now that I had got it? Who would believe the word of such a disreputable vagabond against the word of Rupert Devereux? Still, I would have his confession—some day it might be useful.
"Have you a candle?" I asked.
The woman rose from her seat for the first time, and after groping about for a moment or two produced a few inches of tallow dip I struck a match, and, righting it, thrust it in the neck of a black bottle which she silently handed me. Then, in as few words as possible, I wrote down the substance of Hilton's confession and handed it to him, with the pencil, to sign.
"If it only does 'im the harm I wish it will," he muttered, "it'll do. Now, mister," he went on, turning towards me half threateningly, half whiningly, "wot I wants to know is this—Be yer going to peach on me for that poaching job, and how in thunder's name did yer know where to find me?"
"By accident, the latter," I answered. I saw you come out of this den months ago, when I was riding across the moor to Silverbridge. I thought it was a chance resemblance then, but when I saw you in the wood I knew you. John Hilton, I am not going to denounce you as one of that gang of poachers; on the other hand, I have purposely refrained from handing in your description. But you have an account to settle with me.
He grasped his cudgel again.
"What do you mean?" he muttered.
"I shall show you," I answered. I turned aside to the woman, who sat watching us with a weary, indifferent stare.