“Make myself scarce,” he answered. “’Tis all I can do for the present. No good arguing while the rope’s round your neck. I can’t prove I’m innocent, so ’tis vain stopping to do it. I’ll get out of harm’s way, if I can. I mean to get to Plymouth afore morning an’ go down among the ships. Then I’ll take the first job any man offers me, an’ if my luck holds, I did ought to be in blue water to-morrow.”
“They’ll trace you by the horse if you ride.”
“So they would, of course. ’Tis the horse I trust to help me again as he’ve helped to-night. Like enough, when you hear next about me, they’ll tell you as I’ve been killed by the horse. But don’t you feel no fear. I shall be to Plymouth very comfortable.”
She ministered to him, and he ate and drank heartily.
“One hour I’ll bide along wi’ my own true love, then off I must go,” said Daniel. “I’ve hit poor Gregory rather hard; but I hope he’ll get over it. Anyway, it had to be done. Only you go on being yourself, Min, an’ keep up your courage, an’ fill your time working for me. The case is clear. Some man have shot Adam Thorpe; but he didn’t shoot him with my gun, because my gun was in my own hand when Thorpe fell, an’ I was a good few mile away. To be exact, I was getting pheasants for ’e in Westcombe woods at the time—you’ll find ’em in the well; an’ I heard the shots fired at Middlecott quite clear, though I was five mile off. But the thing be to show that I was five mile off.”
“And your gun, Daniel?”
“I put my gun back in the case in the next room to this long afore midnight yesterday,” he said.
“Then ’twas fetched away after midnight?”
“Yes, it was; an’ if you can find the man as took my gun, then you’ll find the man who killed the keeper.”
“’Twill be the first thought an’ prayer of my life to do it, Daniel.”