“You know that knife, sir?”
To gain time the boy held out his hand, drawing his breath hard, and striving to control his voice and make it firm.
Then, as he took the knife, he examined it as if in doubt, hesitating about turning it over, and then handing it back, saying firmly, “No.”
“That’s a lie,” thought the man, as he retook the knife, “and my lord here is trying to keep the lair hidden. He knows.”
But the knife had no crosses filed in the handle, and Nic was breathing freely, when he noticed that the black was pointing to something else—a faintly marked footprint, evidently made by a coarsely made sandal or shoe. Beyond this was another, and again beyond another.
“That’s right—go on!” rang in his ears, and the next moment the party was again in motion, with the blacks bending low, and from walking beginning to trot, while the policeman pressed his horse closer to Nic’s.
“Easy trail to follow, sir,” he said. “Now, then, don’t you think you’d better save us further trouble by taking us straight across country to your man’s form?”
“I told you I did not know where he was hiding,” said Nic shortly.
“You did, sir, but I thought I’d save trouble. These birds are a bit desperate when run down, and I’m sure you wouldn’t like to see him shot when he refuses to surrender. Now, would you?”
“No,” said Nic, rather faintly.