Rodd nodded and frowned.
“Well, I suppose you noticed that there was a hole at the bottom of those rocks across there, where the little stream came out?”
“Yes,” said Rodd, with his brow puckering up.
“Well, yesterday evening, as I said to your uncle, I went over the ground again to see if I could find any track of those escaped prisoners.”
Rodd nodded shortly.
“Well, I took off my gaiters and shoes and stockings and waded across the pool, and nearly doubled myself up to get into that hole; and after I had gone a little way I found that there was quite a dry cave there with streaks of light coming down from above between the piled-up stones.”
Rodd nodded again.
“Just in the highest part where the water did not reach, some one had lit a fire with bits of ling and dry peat. It was still warm—at least, the ashes were, and somebody had been busy cooking trout there, grilling them, thriddled on a stick of hazel; and very curious it was too, for somehow or other, the water, instead of running down, had been running up backwards like, and carried with it that there fishing-basket of yours, and the wallet, and laid them upon that nice dry sandy place close up to the fire along by which there were ever so many heads of those little fish, and their backbones. Rum, wasn’t it? Do you think an otter could have done that?”
“No,” said Rodd, after a few moments’ pause; and he spoke sharply and angrily. “No, I don’t think that.”
“More don’t I,” said the sergeant dryly, and he half closed his eyes and sent a faint little curl of smoke into the air. “Now, young gentleman, what do you think would happen if I was to go yonder to the governor at the prison, and say that I believed you had helped the King’s enemies to escape? You didn’t, of course, eh?”