"How far are we from Withan?" he asked the driver.
"Five or six miles. The road winds a lot. It's a deal nearer as the crow flies."
"You need not wait for us, driver. My friend and I are going to walk back."
The coachman pocketed his money and drove away.
"Couldn't keep him waiting all night, as we may have to do," said Quarles. "Mind you, Wigan, I'm very doubtful about my theory; at least, I am not certain that I shall find the facts I want. A few hours will settle it one way or the other."
After walking along the road for about a mile Quarles scrambled through a hedge into a wood by the roadside.
"We're trespassers, but we must take our chance. Should we meet anyone, blame me. Say I am a doddering old fool who would walk under the trees and you were obliged to come to see that I didn't get into any mischief. Do you go armed?"
"Always," I answered.
"I do sometimes," he said, tapping his pocket. "We might come up against danger if my theory is correct. If I tell you to shoot—shoot, and quickly. Your life is likely to depend upon it. And keep your ears open to make sure no one is following us."
He had become keen, like a dog on the trail, and, old as he was, seemed incapable of fatigue. Whether he had studied the topography of the neighborhood I cannot say, but he did not hesitate in his direction until he reached a high knoll which was clear of the wood and commanded a considerable view.