‘So did I,’ said the wretched Scremerston, ’but I was mistaken.  Oh, Logan, you don’t know the difference! This is genuine biz,’ remarked the afflicted nobleman with much simplicity.  He went on:  ’Then there’s my father—­you know him.  He was against the other affair, but, if he thinks I have committed myself and then want to back out, why, with his ideas, he’d rather see me dead.  But I can’t go on with the other thing now:  I simply can not.  I’ve a good mind to go out after rabbits, and pot myself crawling through a hedge.’

‘Oh, nonsense!’ said Logan; ’that is stale and superfluous.  For all that I can see, there is no harm done.  The young lady, depend upon it, won’t break her heart.  As a matter of fact, they don’t—­we do.  You have only to sit tight.  You are no more committed than I am.  You would only make both of you wretched if you went and committed yourself now, when you don’t want to do it.  In your position I would certainly sit tight:  don’t commit yourself—­either here or there, so to speak; or, if you can’t sit tight, make a bolt for it.  Go to Norway.  I am very strongly of opinion that the second plan is the best.  But, anyhow, keep up your pecker.  You are all right—­I give you my word that I think you are all right.’

‘Thanks, old cock,’ said Scremerston.  ’Sorry to have bored you, but I had to speak to somebody.’

* * * * * *

‘Best thing you could do,’ said Logan.  ’You’ll feel ever so much better.  That kind of worry comes of keeping things to oneself, till molehills look mountains.  If you like I’ll go with you to Norway myself.’

‘Thanks, awfully,’ said Scremerston, but he did not seem very keen.  Poor little Scremerston!

Logan ‘breasted the brae’ from the riverside to the house.  His wading-boots were heavy, for he had twice got in over the tops thereof; heavy was his basket that Fenwick carried behind him, but light was Logan’s heart, for the bustard had slain its dozens of good trout.  He and the keeper emerged from the wood on the level of the lawn.  All the great mass of the house lay dark before them.  Logan was to let himself in by the locked French window; for it was very late—­about two in the morning.  He had the key of the window-door in his pocket.  A light moved through the long gallery:  he saw it pass each window and vanish.  There was dead silence:  not a leaf stirred.  Then there rang out a pistol-shot, or was it two pistol-shots?  Logan ran for the window, his rod, which he had taken down after fishing, in his hand.