"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 call him. He's come here for many a year, at odd times. Camps out with his pony and cart, and goes round the villages and farmsteads, seeing if there's aught to mend, and selling 'em pots and pans and such-like. Stops a week or two--sometimes longer." "And poaches all he can lay hands on," added the gamekeeper. "Only he takes good care never to go off this Hollow to do it." "Have you made any inquiry of him?" asked Neale. "We were just thinking of doing that, sir," replied the policeman. "He roams up and down about here at nights, when he is here. But I don't know how long he's been camping this time--it's very seldom I ever come round this way myself--there's naught to come for." "Let's go across there and speak to him," said Neale. He and Betty followed the two men down the side of the promontory and across the ups and downs of the Hollow, until they came to a deeper depression fringed about by a natural palisading of hawthorn. And as they drew near and could see into the dingle-like recess which the tinker had selected for his camping-ground they became aware of a savoury and appetizing odour, and the gamekeeper laughed. "Cooking his supper, is Tinner Creasy!" he remarked. "And good stuff he has in his pot, too!" The tinker, now in full view, sat on a log near a tripod, beneath which crackled a bright fire, burning under a black pot. The leaping flames revealed a shrewd, weather-beaten face which turned sharply towards the bushes as the visitors appeared; they also lighted up the tinker's cart in the background, the browsing pony close by, the implements of the tinner's trade strewn around on the grass. It was an alluring picture of vagabond life, and Neale suddenly compared it with the dull existence of folk who, like himself, were chained to a desk. He would have liked to sit down by Tinner Creasy and ask him about his doings--but the policeman had less poetical ideas.