They had only stopped to light their pipes, though Jill and I trembled like aspen leaves. I noticed that one of the men, after he had taken a draw or two himself, wiped the pipe-stem and thrust it friendly-like into the the prisoner’s mouth. He must have been a good man.
But we gathered enough from their conversation, brief as it was, to quite frighten us.
“He’s on the moor,” said one, “and they’re bound to have him.”
“A desperate character, isn’t he?”
“Rather. Kill you as soon as wink.”
Then they went on.
Who was this desperate character, abroad on the moor?
“Surely they can’t refer to me, Jill?” I said.
“Oh no,” said Jill; “certainly not. They would have mentioned me, you know.”
“I don’t think so, Jill. You are not such a desperate character as I am.”