Davie was not stupid, and he saw clearly enough that it was the best thing he could do if Harry Foster were really dead, to go and help look for his murderer. So he came along with us, telling us of the talk he had had with the carrier in his cart.
"I was telling stories, and we were wonderful merry!" he admitted.
"How far did you go with him?" we asked.
"To where the road dives into the wood like a rabbit!" he answered. "Here!" he cried, suddenly throwing up his hand.
And there, plain enough to be seen, were the marks of Davie's boot heels as he had leaped upon the bank from the post gig.
"Then I crossed the dyke and went down to the waterside."
From that point, as you may suppose, we followed carefully the marks of the wheels. The pony had been going no faster than a walk. The tracks were deeply impressed, and as it was damper under the trees, you could even see where Piebald Bess had been sparing her lame foot, which, of course, she would not have the chance of doing when pushed to a trot.
Then Davie came to a halt, Elsie just behind him. There was nothing particular, only the ground was pawed and cut about in little crescent discs, as if a horse had got wearied standing and wanted to get on. Then beyond that the wheel ruts were much deeper than before.
"He has talked to somebody, he has taken other passengers here," cried Davie, "and I never heard them—fool that I was—thinking of nothing but the Duke's silly trout in the burn yonder."
Without speaking we followed on, till the Brom Water, slow, deep, and still, lay before us. It was strictly preserved, and we boys dared not visit it for fear of the fishery watchers and keepers, who were up to all sorts of tricks to catch us. Only old hands like Davie dared such a thing, and even they chose their time.