He pointed in the direction suggested by Arthur.
"It was some robber, without doubt," he added.
Jack looked uneasily around. Where was the man? Perhaps still in the copse ready to repeat his shot. But with another glance at the victim Jack felt that there was something strange in his story. Who would rob an ill-clad, dirty-looking fellow like this? He did not appear worth the pains. And what had brought him to the Hollow? He was certainly a foreigner; the copse was off the highway; what was he doing there?
From beneath his black shaggy brows the man was keenly watching. Apparently he saw by Jack's expression that doubts were crossing his mind. Still dabbing his head he began to speak again.
"I am unlucky. I am of Spitalfields, a silk weaver. At Wickham Ferrers I have at the inn fine silks. I visit the nobility and gentry; they give me orders. I am on my way to the house of Mr. Bastable—the squire, people call him. He is rich; his lady will buy my silks."
"But this is not the way to Mr. Bastable's."
"Is it not? They told me there was a short cut through the wood. Ah! the villains! It is a trap. They had me here to shoot me. Yes, that is it."
"And your samples?"
The man started.
"Yes, my samples," he said hurriedly, looking round. "They steal them. But I have others at Wickham Ferrers, at the inn. I go for them at once."