“I won't insult you by telling you not to be frightened,” said the voice of a gentleman. There was no mistaking it. The speaker stood quite still, with the water bubbling round his legs. He was hatless, and his hair was cut quite short.
A thought flashed across the fisherman's slow brain. Like the rest of his craft, he was slower of mind than of hand.
“Yes,” said the other, divining his thoughts, “I'm from Dartmoor. You probably heard of my escape two days ago.”
“Yes,” replied the other, quietly, while he wound in his line. “I heard of it.”
“And where do they say I am?”
“Oh, the police have got a clue—as usual,” replied the fisherman.
The escaped convict laughed bitterly, but the laugh broke off into a sickening cackle.
“I've been in those brickworks,” he said, “all the time, meditating murder. I stole a loaf from a baker's cart; but man cannot live by bread alone; ah! Ha! ha!”
The fisherman held out his flask, which the other took, and opened the somewhat uncommon silver top with ease bred of knowledge.
He poured himself out a full glass and drank it off.