“Then, sir,” said the youth gravely, “you much belie your reputation.  And now I must leave you for another part of the preserves, where I think it likely that last night’s poachers may now be, and where I shall pass the night in watching for them.  You may want your permit for a few miles further, so I will not take it.  Neither need you give it up at Sunch’ston.  It is dated, and will be useless after this evening.”

With this he strode off into the forest, bowing politely but somewhat coldly, and without encouraging my father’s half proffered hand.

My father turned sad and unsatisfied away.

“It serves me right,” he said to himself; “he ought never to have been my son; and yet, if such men can be brought by hook or by crook into the world, surely the world should not ask questions about the bringing.  How cheerless everything looks now that he has left me.”

* * * * *

By this time it was three o’clock, and in another few minutes my father came upon the ashes of the fire beside which he and the Professors had supped on the preceding evening.  It was only some eighteen hours since they had come upon him, and yet what an age it seemed!  It was well the Ranger had left him, for though my father, of course, would have known nothing about either fire or poachers, it might have led to further falsehood, and by this time he had become exhausted—­not to say, for the time being, sick of lies altogether.

He trudged slowly on, without meeting a soul, until he came upon some stones that evidently marked the limits of the preserves.  When he had got a mile or so beyond these, he struck a narrow and not much frequented path, which he was sure would lead him towards Sunch’ston, and soon afterwards, seeing a huge old chestnut tree some thirty or forty yards from the path itself, he made towards it and flung himself on the ground beneath its branches.  There were abundant signs that he was nearing farm lands and homesteads, but there was no one about, and if any one saw him there was nothing in his appearance to arouse suspicion.

He determined, therefore, to rest here till hunger should wake him, and drive him into Sunch’ston, which, however, he did not wish to reach till dusk if he could help it.  He meant to buy a valise and a few toilette necessaries before the shops should close, and then engage a bedroom at the least frequented inn he could find that looked fairly clean and comfortable.

He slept till nearly six, and on waking gathered his thoughts together.  He could not shake his newly found son from out of them, but there was no good in dwelling upon him now, and he turned his thoughts to the Professors.  How, he wondered, were they getting on, and what had they done with the things they had bought from him?

“How delightful it would be,” he said to himself, “if I could find where they have hidden their hoard, and hide it somewhere else.”