The Squire held out his hand, for the first time, for Yorke to shake.

“Why, what’s this?” said he, peering into the other’s eyes.  “I have seen your face before, my friend.”

“Yes, Sir; a week or two ago I played the part of night-watcher in your preserves—­it was a mad prank; but”—­and here the young fellow smiled roguishly—­“it was better than poaching, you must admit.”

“What!” cried the Squire, delighted, “are you the fellow that had that bout with me in the Decoy Pond?  Why, I thought you were one of my own men, and sent you something; but, of course, my scoundrels drank it.  I’m glad to see you, Sir, by daylight.  It was the uncertain moonshine that hampered me, else, by Jove, I’d have given you ‘one, two!’ We must have it out another day, for a drawn battle is just the thing I hate.  What’s your name, young gentleman, and where do you live?”

“I live close by, Sir; I am in lodgings for the present.”

“Ay, ay, for the hunting, I suppose,” said the impetuous Squire.  “Hark to those devils of dogs; they are howling yet; they would have had my stags by this time but for you.  Well, well; send for your portmanteau, and take up your quarters at Crompton; you shall have a hearty welcome; only don’t be late for dinner—­seven, Sir, sharp.  Here are my knavish grooms at last.”

And, under cover of the fire of imprecations which the Squire poured upon his approaching retainers, the young landscape-painter withdrew.  He had obtained his end at last, and he wished to retire before Carew should put that question to him for a second time—­what is your name?—­which, at such a moment, it would, for certain reasons, have been embarrassing to answer.

He betook himself at once to the keeper’s lodge, and packing up his wardrobe, which, though of modest dimensions, comprised all that was requisite for a gentleman’s costume, dispatched it to the great house.  He followed it himself shortly afterward, only waiting to dash off a note by the afternoon’s post for town.  It was literally a “hurried line,” and would have better suited these later telegraphic days, when thoughts, though wire-drawn, are compressed, and brevity is the soul of cheapness, as of wit. “I have got my foot in, and however it may be pinched, will keep the door open.  Direct to me at Crompton.”

It was not a nice trait in the young man, if it was a characteristic one, that he did not take the trouble even to leave so much word as that for the old keeper, who was engaged in his outdoor duties, but simply inclosed the few shillings in which he was indebted to him inside an envelope, addressed to Walter Grange.  The old man liked him, as he well knew, and would have prized a few words of farewell; but Yorke was in a hurry to change his quarters for the better; he had climbed from low to high, and gave no further thought to the ladder which had so far served him.  But yet he had some prudence too.  Though he had