The morning sun shone brilliantly without, but as soon as they were in the wood they seemed to have entered upon a dusky twilight, cut here and there by brilliant shafts and bands which struck the ground in places and made broad patches of golden hue.
No word was spoken, and in the dim wood with the rustling increasing, the scene in some way suggested to Dick the fen during the night when he was listening to the passing of the punt—evidently Dave’s—and he fell a-wondering whether the decoy-man was now far away on the other side of the mere.
“That you, squire?” shouted Farmer Tallington from the trees beyond the hut, which now appeared before them, sombre and gloomy, half hidden by the growth.
“Yes, we are here,” was the reply.
“He’s in here some’ere’s, for his poont’s ashore.”
“Where are you?” came from the other side, and, guided by the voices, Marston soon came up, with his men.
The squire gave a short sharp order, and the two parties separated, so as to surround the little hut. Tom whispered to Dick what he was already thinking.
“Why, Dick, old Dave’s as cunning as a rat, and could slip through there easy.”
The moment the place was surrounded the squire gave a sharp glance back at his son, stepped forward, stooped down, and entered the low hut.
Hickathrift was close behind him, and the next moment he, too, had disappeared.