Yorke watched them toiling round the pond, while the poacher landed, shook himself like any water-dog, and leisurely trotted off.

“It was lucky for him,” murmured he, as he replaced his weapon in his pocket, “that the help came on my side;” then lit his pipe, and leisurely walked home.

Three hours later returned the keeper (for whose arrival he had been sitting up), with twinkling eye and a look of triumph.

“Well, you caught the beggar, did you, Grange?”

“Oh yes, we caught him fast enough,” responded the other, grinning; “we caught the whole lot of them.  And who d’ye think they were?  Why, it was the whole party from the house, as had come out to play at poachers!  Who ever heard of such a game?  Some on ’em got it hot, I reckon, in the new spinney yonder.  But that was no matter.  We’ve all had our skins full of rum punch, and a sov. apiece, because Squire says we proved ourselves good watch-dogs.  And here,” continued the old man, exultingly, “are a couple of sovs. for yourself.  ‘Give them to that tall young fellow,’ says Squire, ’as you posted by the Decoy Pond, for he knows how to use his fists.’  Why, that ’ere chap as you had the tussle with was Carew hisself!”

A deadly paleness overspread the young man’s cheeks.

“Was that Carew?” he said.

“Yes, indeed, it was; though none of us know’d it.  You needn’t look so skeared.  He ain’t annoyed with you; he’s pleased, bless ’ee, and here’s the proof of it.”

“You may keep the guineas, Grange,” said Yorke, gravely; “only keep my secret too.  If he thinks I was a night-watcher, let him continue in that belief.”

“Why, it’s the best introduction to Carew as you could have!” insisted the astonished keeper.  “You have only to go up to the great house to-morrow, and say:  ‘Here’s the man as proved your match last night,’ and—­”

“You must allow me to be the best judge of my own affairs,” interrupted the young fellow, haughtily; “so you will be so good as to say nothing more about the matter.”

“Just as you please, Sir; and I am sure you are very kind,” answered the keeper, slipping the coins into his pocket.  “Squire hisself could not be more liberal, that’s certain.  You are tired, I see; and I wish you good-night, Sir, or rather good-morning.”

“Good-night, Grange.”

“Now, that’s what I call pride,” said Walter, grimly, as he closed the door upon his lodger; “and I am sure I hope, for his sake, it may never have a fall.”

When Richard Yorke was thus left to himself he did a curious thing; he took out the life-preserver from its receptacle, and having made up the fire, placed it in the centre of the burning mass, so that in the morning there was nothing left of it save a dull lump of lead.

CHAPTER IV.

ACROSS THE THRESHOLD.