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 whom all his life hitherto had been passed.

Diggle’s frankness had pleased him.  They had left the Four Alls early on the morning after that strange incident at the squire’s.  Desmond had told his friend what had happened, and Diggle, apparently surprised to learn of Grinsell’s villainy, had declared that the sooner they were out of his company the better.  They had come by easy stages to London, and were now lodging at a small inn near the Tower:  not a very savory neighborhood, Diggle admitted, but convenient.  Diggle had soon obtained for Desmond a berth on board the Good Intent bound for the East Indies, and from what he let drop, the boy understood that he was to sail as supercargo.

He had not yet seen the vessel; she was painting, and would shortly be coming up to the Pool.  Nor had he seen Captain Barker, who was very much occupied, said Diggle, and had a great deal of trouble in keeping his crew out of the clutches of the press gang.  Some of the best of them had been sent to the Waterman’s Rest in charge of the chief and second mates.  It was at Diggle’s suggestion that he had been deputed to convey the captain’s message to the men.

It was drawing towards evening when Desmond reached Hounslow Heath; a wide, bare expanse of scrubby land intersected by a muddy road.  A light mist lay over the ground, and he was thankful that the road to London was perfectly direct, so that there was no further risk of his losing his way.  The solitude and the dismal appearance of the country, together with its ill repute, made him quicken his pace, though he had no fear of molestation; having nothing to lose, he would be but poor prey for a highwayman, and he trusted to his cudgel to protect him from the attentions of any single footpad or tramp.

Striding along in the gathering dusk, he came suddenly upon a curious scene.  A heavy traveling carriage was drawn half across the road, its forewheels perilously near the ditch.  Near by was a lady, standing with arms stiff and hands clenched, stamping her foot as she addressed, in no measured terms, two men who were rolling over one another in a desperate tussle a few yards away on the heath.  As Desmond drew nearer he perceived that a second and younger lady stood at the horses’ heads, grasping the bridles firmly with both hands.