No--Spurge must be produced."
"If Spurge comes into Scarhaven," observed Copplestone, "he'll be
promptly collared by the police. They want him for poaching."
"Then they can get him when the proceedings are over," retorted the old
lawyer, dryly. "They daren't touch him while he's giving evidence and
that's all we want. Perhaps he won't come?--Oh he'll come all right if
we make it worth his while. A month in Norcaster gaol will mean nothing
to him if he knows there's a chance of that reward or something
substantial out of it at the end of his sentence. You must go out to
this retreat of his and bring him in--we must have him. Better go very
early in the morning.
"I'll go now," said Copplestone. "It's as easy to go by night as by day."
He left the other three to seek their beds, and himself slipped quietly
out of the hotel by one of the ground-floor windows and set off in a
pitch-black night to seek Spurge in his lair. And after sundry barkings
of his shins against the rocks and scratchings of his hands and cheeks by
the undergrowth of Hobkin's Hole he rounded the poacher out and delivered
his message.
Spurge, blinking at his visitor in the pale light of a guttering candle,
shook his head.
"I'll come, guv'nor," he said. "Of course. I'll come--and I'll trust to
luck to get away, and it don't matter a deal if the luck's agen me--I've
done a month in Norcaster before today, and it ain't half a bad
rest-cure, if you only take it that way.
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