and fallen somewhere along this path, between the town and Ellersdeane House—it's not much followed, this path. But we've seen nothing—up to now."
Neale turned to the keeper.
"Were none of your people about here on Saturday night?" he asked. "You've a good many watchers on the estate, haven't you?"
"Yes, sir—a dozen or more," answered the keeper. "But we don't come this way—this isn't our land. Our beats lie the other way—t'other side of the village. We never come on to this part at all."
"This, you know, Mr. Neale," remarked the policeman, jerking his thumb over the Hollow, "this, in a manner of speaking, belongs to nobody. Some say it belongs to the Crown—I don't know. All I know is that nobody has any rights over it—it's been what you might term common land ever since anybody can remember. This here Mr. Horbury that's missing—your governor, sir—I once met him out here, and had a bit of talk with him, and he told me that it isn't even known who worked them old lead-mines down there, nor who has any rights over all this waste. That, of course," concluded the policeman, pointing to the glowing fire which Neale and Betty had seen from the edge of the wood, "that's why chaps like yonder man come and camp here just as they like—there's nobody to stop 'em."
"Who is the man?" asked Neale, glancing at the fire, whose flames made a red spot amongst the bushes.
"Most likely a travelling tinker chap, sir, that comes this way now and again," answered the policeman. "Name of Creasy—Tinner Creasy, the folks
