He did not stop a moment at the shed, not even entering it to see whether the heap of leaves had been displaced during the night, but went on straight to Medlicot’s Mill.  He rode the nine miles in an hour, and at once entered the building in which the canes were crushed.  The first man he met was Nokes, who acted as overseer, having a gang of Polynesian laborers under him—­sleek, swarthy fellows from the South Sea Islands, with linen trowsers on and nothing else—­who crept silently among the vats and machinery, shifting the sugar as it was made.

“Well, Nokes,” said Harry, “how are you getting on?  Is Mr. Medlicot here?”

Nokes was a big fellow, with a broad, solid face, which would not have condemned him among physiognomists but for a bad eye, which could not look you in the face.  He had been a boundary rider for Heathcote, and on an occasion had been impertinent, refusing to leave the yard behind the house unless something was done which those about the place refused to do for him.  During the discussion Harry had come in.  The man had been drinking, and was still insolent, and Harry had ejected him violently, thrusting him over a gate.  The man had returned the next morning, and had then been sent about his business.  He had been employed at Medlicot’s Mill, but from the day of his dismissal to this he and Harry had never met each other face to face.

“I’m pretty well, thank ye, Mr. Heathcote.  I hope you’re the same, and the ladies.  The master’s about somewhere, I take it.—­Picky, go and find the master.”  Picky was one of the Polynesians, who at once started on his errand.

“Have you been over to Gangoil since you left it?” said Harry, looking the man full in the face.

“Not I, Mr. Heathcote.  I never go where I’ve had words.  And, to tell you the truth, sugar is better than sheep.  I’m very comfortable here, and I never liked your work.”

“You haven’t been at the wool-shed?”

“What, the Gangoil shed!  What the blazes ’d I go there for?  It’s a matter of ten miles from here.”

“Seven, Nokes.”

“Seven, is it?  It is a longish seven miles, Mr. Heathcote.  How could I get that distance?  I ain’t so good at walking as I was before I was hurt.  You should have remembered that, Mr. Heathcote, when you laid hands on me the other day.”

“You’re not much the worse for what I did; nor yet for the accident, I take it.  At any rate, you’ve not been at Gangoil wool-shed?”

“No, I’ve not,” said the man, roughly.  “What the mischief should I be doing at your shed at night-time?”

“I said nothing about night-time.”

“I’m here all day, ain’t I?  If you’re going to palm off any story against me, Mr. Heathcote, you’ll find yourself in the wrong box.  What I does I does on the square.”