He had heard Mr. Redgill speak of it as a capital joke that Farmer Bertram always concealed his bank notes in the inner lining of his boots!

But of this he said not a word.

“Ah! it’s a sad case,” said Bolton. “I am very sorry I cannot remain with you until the constables come, but business of pressing importance calls me away.”

Betty, the old servant, was instantly summoned, and toddled off to the village in all haste, much amazed at the message she had to tell to the constables.

Despite all the old farmer’s entreaties Mr. Bolton would not stay, but left at the same moment old Betsy did.

Both of them went down the lane together.

When they reached the high road Bolton said to the servant,

“If the constables should ask who gave this information, you know my name, old woman?”

“No, I don’t, kind gentleman,” was the croaking reply.

“You do not think I am Bob Bertram, then?” said the stranger.

“That I cannot say,” answered the old woman, “for you keep your hat so far over your face.”

“Well, tell them one Mr. Smith, of Portsmouth, called and told Farmer Bertram all about it.”

“I will, kind gentleman.”

“Make haste. Good night.”

Betsy went towards the village, and Bolton turned his horse’s head in a contrary direction and galloped away.

He had not gone more than a quarter of a mile when a bend in the road hid him from Betsy’s view.

Instead of riding onward, however, he spurred his horse, and leaped hedge after hedge, until he returned to the farm again in less than ten minutes.

He tied his horse to a tree in the orchard, and quietly approached the back door of the farm-house again.

All was darkness save a ray of light which 

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