They had finished their bread and cheese, and were sitting idly, being in no hurry to start on their way back, when a man on horseback turned off from the road and came up the narrow lane in which the house stood. As Charlie, who was facing that way, looked at him he started, and grasped Harry's arm.
"It is our man," he said. "It is Nicholson himself! To think of our searching all London, these weeks past, and stumbling upon him here."
The man stopped at the door, which was at once opened by the landlord.
"All right, I suppose, landlord?" the man said, as he swung himself from his horse.
"There is no one here except two young fellows, who look to me as if they had spent their last penny in London, and were travelling down home again."
He spoke in a lowered voice, but the words came plainly enough to the ears of the listeners within. Another word or two was spoken, and then the landlord took the horse and led it round to a stable behind, while its rider entered the room. He stopped for a moment at the open door of the taproom, and stared at the two young men, who had just put on their hats again. They looked up carelessly, and Harry said:
"Fine weather for this time of year."
The man replied by a grunt, and then passed on into the landlord's private room.
"That is the fellow, sure enough, Charlie," Harry said, in a low tone. "I thought your eyes might have deceived you, but I remember his face well. Now what is to be done?"
"We won't lose sight of him again," Charlie said. "Though, if we do, we shall know where to pick up his traces, for he evidently frequents this place. I should say he has taken to the road. There were a brace of pistols in the holsters. That is how it is that we have not found him before. Well, at any rate, there is no use trying to make his acquaintance here. The first question is, will he stay here for the night or not--and if he does not, which way will he go?"