"There's nowt i' my blood just now but icicles, Sam. Where's the use of this night-and-day vigil, anyhow? Although the recovery of the treasure was kept out of the newspapers, it's quite likely the cracksmen will have got wind of it by this, and won't come near."
"Won't they! I reckon they will. What troubles me is how they're goin' to be nabbed when they do. It'll be two policemen against four thieves, mebbe, and they're sure to have the latest thing in quick-firing revolvers."
"Oh, drop that! You make me creepy, Sam, all up t'spine. I've got a wife and childer, and don't want to die just yet."
"Might be better to be shot dead than to peg out o' frost-bite, anyhow. Here, I say, Bill, have a glance down the hill—careful, now! Who's this queer-looking image crawling up towards us?"
"Why, only one o' them tourist cranks that walks round here in all weathers. Got half-a-vanful of tin mugs and spare socks strapped on his back, you'll notice. Loads himself up like a pack-horse and calls it sport."
"He's waddlin' this way. What shall we do if he stops to talk?"
"Talk back, of course; anything for a change."
The perspiring tourist dropped his stick at the sight of the two men and started back nervously.
"Hallo!" he exclaimed. "Pardon me—I didn't notice you. Like me, you are lovers of Nature, and are drinking the sweet nectar of this gorgeous hill-air into your lungs."
Both the plain-clothes men looked as if they'd much prefer to be drinking beer, but they grunted by way of reply. Unabashed, the tourist unstrapped his knapsack, and sat upon it. Then he wiped his brow on a dingy red handkerchief, and stroked an iron-grey beard as he gazed dreamily towards the sea.