“On my word, Baron,” said he, “if it wasn’t for your innocent way of p-putting things, I could almost suspect you of being a poacher yourself.” 

 Le Sage laughed. 

 “Of other men’s game, in books, perhaps,” he said. 

 “Well,” said Orsden, “you’re right so far, that one of the closest and cunningest poachers I ever heard of was a Leighway hedge-carpenter called Cleaver, and he was as quiet, sober, civil-spoken a chap as one could meet; pious, too, and reasonable, though a bit of a village politician, with views of his own on labour. Yet it came out that for years he’d been making quite a handsome income out of Audley and its neighbours—a sort of D-Deacon Brodie, you know. Not one of their preserves, though; you’re at fault there, Baron. Your local man knows better than to put his head into the noose. His dealings are with the casual outsiders, so far as pheasants are concerned. When he takes a gun, it’s mostly to the birds; and of course he shoots them sitting.” 

 “Brute!” said Audrey. 

 “Well, I don’t know,” said the young Baronet. “He’s a tradesman, isn’t he, not a sportsman, and tradesmen don’t give law.” 

 “How did he escape so long?” asked the girl. 

 “Why, you see,” answered Orsden, “you can’t arrest a man on suspicion of game-stealing with nothing about him to prove it. He must be caught in the act; and if one-third of his business lies in poaching, quite two-thirds lie in the art of avoiding suspicion. Fellows like Cleaver are cleverer hypocrites than they are trappers—J-Joseph Surfaces in corduroys.” 

 “Do you find,” said Le Sage, “men of his kind much prone to violence?” 

 “Not usually,” replied Orsden, “but they may be on occasion, if suddenly discovered at work with a gun in their hands. It’s exposure or murder then, you see; ruin or safety, with no known reason for any one suspecting them. I expect many poor innocent d-devils were hanged in the old days for the sins of such vermin.” 

 “Yes,” said Le Sage, “a shot-gun can be a great riddler.” 

 One or two of us cackled dutifully over the jeu de mot. Could we have guessed what tragic application it would receive before the day was out, we might have appreciated it better, perhaps. 

 I shall not soon forget that afternoon. It began with 

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