“It ’ud be about a quarter-past eight, and nicely dark. Now, I’d reasons o’ my own for not wanting to be seen going Mitbourne way, so when I hears they men a-coming along, I slips behind a big clump o’ gorse that was handy, and stands still. Bimeby, these two comes walking closer—I see ’em outlined against the grey o’ the sky over Selcaster way, d’ye see. One tall man—one shortish man. A few yards away, the tallish man pulls up and lights a cigar. I see his face in the light o’ the match. Then you might ha’ knocked me down with a feather, for ’twas the man I hadn’t never stopped thinking about for seven bitter years, and you may reckon who that was—Guy Markenmore! I see him so well—just for a minute—as I do see you; no mistaking of him, for there wasn’t as much alteration in his face, damn him! as what I do allow he’d ha’ seen in mine. There he was, and if it hadn’t been for t’other with him, I’d ha’ gone for him there and then. But—I didn’t! They come on, talking, they hadn’t never stopped talking since I first see ’em——”
“Hear what they said?” asked Blick.
“Not to remember—only words here and there. Until they come right opposite me—then, as they walks past, I hears something distinct enough. Guy Markenmore, he say it—‘I shall be coming along here about four o’clock in the morning to catch the four something from Mitbourne for Farsham,’ he say, and then he laughs. ‘You’ll be safe and snoring in your bed,’ he say, ‘at that time, no doubt.’ ‘Don’t you be too sure!’ say the little fellow. ‘I’m as early a bird as there is when I’m in the country!’ Then they go on, Markenmore way, and I see ’em disappears round the corner of a spinney that stands about there. And then—”
“A moment, Roper,” interrupted Blick. “The second man—the littlish chap you describe. Did he talk like a countryman? Like anybody about here, you know?”
“No!” replied Roper with emphasis. “Not he! London way o’ talking, his. Wasn’t nobody belonging to these here parts, I know. I been in London, to my sorrow! A Londoner, I set he down for.”
“You didn’t see his face?”
“I didn’t see nothing of he, ’cepting his figure, like. He stand away, as it were, out o’ the light when Guy was a-lighting of his cigar, so I didn’t catch nothing, of his looks. But he was a littlish, broadish chap. To be sure, I didn’t take no great notice of he—’cause I was wishing he wasn’t there at all!”
“Well—what then?” asked Blick.
“Then I goes on to Mitbourne and do my business with the man as I wanted to see,” said Roper, “and when that was done, I had a pint o’ ale with him at the Cock and Pie, and so come home again.”
“Aye,” remarked Blick. “Just so! And——” he paused and gave Roper a particularly knowing look. “Anything else?” he asked.