“You used, though, when you lived at the big house.  Well, I was a-passing, two nights since, rather in a hurry, for I was a little pressed for time, near the house of that old fellow that keeps his game as close as if he was a Turk, and they was his wives—­old Berville—­Lord Berville, you remember, as got Bill Hunkers transported for making love to a hen pheasant.  Well, thinks I, I’ll just make bold to ask if there’s any more of them in his lordship’s covers, when, bing, bang goes a great bell at the Castle, and all the village folks went up to see what it was.  I went with them, and there we seed all the servants a rummaging and scrummaging through the whole house, as if they was the French; and, as I seed them all making free with snuff-boxes, and spoons, and such like, I thought I’d be neighbourly, and just carried off this gold watch as a keepsake of my old friend.”

     “Oh, father!  What will his lordship do?”

“He’ll rot, Janet, without thinking either about me or his watch; for he’s dead.  He was found in his bed that very morning when he was going to sign away all the estate from his nephew.  So that it’s lucky for that ’ere covy that the old boy slipt when he did.  People were sent off in all directions to find him; for it seems the old jackdaw and the young jackdaw wasn’t on good terms, and nobody knows where he’s gone to.”

     “They would have known at Rosley Castle,” said the girl, but
     checked herself, when her father burst out—­

“To the foul fiend with Rosley Castle, girl!  Will you never get such fancies out of your head.  If you name that cursed house to me again, you die!  But, ha! ha! you may name it now,” he added, with a wild laugh.  “We’ve done it.”

     “Who?  Who have done it?”

“She and I,” said the ruffian, and nodded towards the fowling-piece, which he had laid upon the table; “and now we’re safe, I think; so give me some breakfast, girl, and ask no more foolish questions.  You, George, get ready to see if the snares have caught us anything, and I’ll go to bed in the loft.  I’ll speak to this springald when I get up.”

     “Done what, father?” said the girl, laying her hand on the old
     man’s arm.  “For mercy’s sake, tell ne what it is you have
     done—­your looks frighten me.”

     “Why, lodged a slug in the breast of a golden pheasant, that’s
     all—­a favourite bird of yours—­but be off, and get me
     breakfast.”

While waiting for his meal, he sat in an arm-chair, with his eyes fixed on the bed where Lawleigh, or, as we must now call him, Lord Berville, lay apparently asleep.  What the ruffian’s thoughts were we cannot say, but those of his involuntary guest were strange enough.  His uncle dead, and the fortune not alienated, as, with the exception of a very small portion, he had always understood his predecessor had already