"Can I get to London if I cross here?" he asked.

"Sure you can, sir. Up the hill past Mr. Walpole his house; then you
comes to Isleworth and Brentford, and a straight road through Hammersmith
village--a fine walk, sir, and only a penny for the ferryman."

Desmond paid his penny and crossed. He sauntered along up Strawberry
Hill, taking a good look at the snug little house upon which Mr. Horace
Walpole was spending much money and pains. Wandering on, and preferring
bylanes to the high road, he lost his bearings, and at length, fearing
that he was going in the wrong direction, he stopped at a wayside cottage
to inquire the way.

He was farther out than he knew. The woman who came to the door in answer
to his knock said that, having come so far, he had better proceed in the
same direction until he reached Hounslow, and then strike into the London
road and keep to it.

Desmond was nothing loath. He had heard of Hounslow and those notorious
"Diana's foresters," Plunket and James Maclean--highwaymen who a few
years before had been the terror of night travelers across the lonely
Heath. There was a fascination about the scene of their exploits. So he
trudged on, feeling now a little tired, and hoping to get a lift in some
farmer's cart that might be going towards London.

More than once as he walked his thoughts recurred to the scene at the
Waterman's Rest. They were a rough, villainous-looking set, these members
of the crew of the Good Intent! Of course, as supercargo he would not
come into close contact with them; and Mr. Diggle had warned him that he
would find seafaring men somewhat different from the country folk among