“Job Grinsell, on my soul and body!” cried the squire.  “You villain!  You ungrateful knave!  Is this how you repay me?  I might have hanged you, you scoundrel, when you poached my game; a word from me and Sir Philip would have seen you whipped before he let his inn to you; but I was too kind; I am a fool; and you—­by, gad, you shall hang this time.”

The squire’s face was purple with anger, and he shook his stick as though then and there he would have wrought chastisement on the offender.  Grinsell’s flabby face, however, expressed amusement rather than fear.

“Bless my soul!” cried the squire, suddenly turning to his men, “I’d forgotten the other villain.  Off with you; search for him; bring him here.”

Desmond had already set off to look for Grinsell’s accomplice.  Taper in hand he went quickly from room to room; joined by the squire’s servants, he searched every nook and cranny of the house, examining doors and windows, opening cupboards, poking at curtains—­all in vain.  At last, at the end of a dark corridor, he came upon an open window some ten feet above the ground.  It was so narrow that a man of ordinary size must have had some difficulty in squeezing his shoulders through; but Desmond was forced to the conclusion that the housebreaker had sprung out here, and by this time had made good his escape.  Disappointed at his failure, he returned with the servants to the library.

“We can’t find him, Sir Willoughby,” said Desmond, as he opened the door.

To his surprise, Grinsell and Dickon were gone; no one but the squire was in the room, and he was sitting in a big chair, limp and listless, his eyes fixed upon the floor.

“We can’t find him,” repeated Desmond.

The squire looked up.

“What did you say?” he asked, as though the events of the past half-hour were a blank.  “Oh, ’tis you, Desmond, yes; what can I do for you?”

Desmond was embarrassed.

“I—­we have—­we have looked for the other villain, Sir Willoughby,” he stammered.  “We can’t find him.”

“Ah!  ’Twas you gave the alarm.  Good boy; zeal, excellent; but a little mistake; yes, Grinsell explained; a mistake, Desmond.”

The squire spoke hurriedly, disconnectedly, with an embarrassment even greater than Desmond’s.

“But, sir,” the boy began, “I saw—­”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted the old man.  “I know all about it.  But Grinsell’s explanation—­yes, I know all about it.  I am obliged to you, Desmond; but I am satisfied with Grinsell’s explanation; I shall go no further in the matter.”

He groaned and put his hand to his head.

“Are you ill, Sir Willoughby?” asked Desmond anxiously.

The squire looked up; his face was an image of distress.  He was silent for a moment; then said slowly: 

“Sick at heart, Desmond, sick at heart.  I am an old man—­an old man.”

Desmond was uncomfortable.  He had never seen the squire in such a mood, and had a healthy boy’s natural uneasiness at any display of feeling.