“Oldbourne’s about nine miles, or less,” said the Squire. “It’s a long time since I’ve been there, but I don’t remember thinking much of it. Now I’ll show you another thing.”
Fanshawe had lowered the glasses, and was still gazing in the Oldbourne direction. “No,” he said, “I can’t make out anything with the naked eye. What was it you were going to show me?”
“A good deal more to the left—it oughtn’t to be difficult to find. Do you see a rather sudden knob of a hill with a thick wood on top of it? It’s in a dead line with that single tree on the top of the big ridge.”
“I do,” said Fanshawe, “and I believe I could tell you without much difficulty what it’s called.”
“Could you now?” said the Squire. “Say on.”
“Why, Gallows Hill,” was the answer.
“How did you guess that?”
“Well, if you don’t want it guessed, you shouldn’t put up a dummy gibbet and a man hanging on it.”
“What’s that?” said the Squire abruptly. “There’s nothing on that hill but wood.”
“On the contrary,” said Fanshawe, “there’s a largish expanse of grass on the top and your dummy gibbet in the middle; and I thought there was something on it when I looked first. But I see there’s nothing—or is there? I can’t be sure.”