The keeper was for abusing him, but David turned away. And now he was not the well-dressed, gloved, spick-and-span Londoner, but the Indian of the prairie, with a heart from which the glow had gone, with eyes that saw and ears that heard and a brain that recorded everything.
He was instantly aware that the country policeman who had lolled through the village behind him was a forewarned spy. He knew that this functionary watched his return to the railway station, from which, as David happened to remember, the time-table had shown a train London-wards at one o’clock.
The station-master was affable enough, gave him some bread and meat and a glass of milk, and refused any payment. When the train came in, David, sourly smiling, saw the constable loll onto the platform. He could not resist the temptation to lean out of the carriage window.
“Good-by, P. C. 198,” he said.
Now, he was traveling first-class, and, in England, even a villain demands respect under that circumstance.
“Good-by, sir,” said the man, surprised.
“You will know me again, eh?”
“Oh yes, sir.”
“I am glad of that. Tell that chap at the gate of Dale Manor that I shall keep my fixture with him soon.”
P. C. 198 scratched his head. “Funny affair,” he muttered as the train moved off. “Looks an’ talks more of a gentleman than van Wot’s-his-name, any day.”