The runner hooked out a half-penny—a good fat copper coin, to the starveling bronze of these days as Daniel Lambert to a dandy. He put it in the old scarecrow’s hand.
“Here’s for trespass,” he said, and turning his back on him he recrossed the wall.
“That’ll stop his mouth,” Tyson grinned. “But what are you going to give me to stop mine?”
Bishop laughed on the wrong side of his face.
“A bone and a jorum whenever you’ll come and take it,” he said.
“Done with you,” the doctor replied. “Some day, when that old beldame, mother Gilson, is out, I’ll claim it. But if you think,” he continued, “that your man is this side of the hill you are mistaken, Mr. Bishop. I’m up and down this road day and night, and he’d be very clever if he kept out of my sight.”
“Ay?”
“You may take my word for that. I’ll lay you a dozen wherever he is, he’s not this side.”
The runner nodded. At this moment he was a little out of conceit with himself, and he thought that the other might be right. Besides, he might spend a week going from farm to farm, and shed to shed and be no wiser at the end of it. Yet, the girl knew, he was convinced; and after all, that was his way to it. She knew, and he’d to her again and have it out of her one way or another. And if she would not speak, he would shadow her; he would follow her hour by hour and minute by minute. Sooner or later she would be sure to try to see her man, and he would nab them both. There were no two ways about it. There was only one way. An old hand should have known better than to go wasting time in random searchings.
He returned to the inn, more fixed than ever in his notion. With an impassive face he told Mrs. Gilson that he must see the young lady.