of the village and finding the major portion of his sustenance by
skillfully poaching the preserves of the principal landowners of the
surrounding district.

On this particular morning he was well content with his night's work. He
had raided the covers of one Patrick Lovell, the owner of Barrow Court,
who, although himself a confirmed invalid and debarred from all manner
of sport, employed two or three objectionably lynx-eyed keepers to
safeguard his preserves for the benefit of his heirs and assigns.

No covers were better stocked than those of Barrow Court, but Brady
rarely risked replenishing his larder from them, owing to the extreme
wideawakeness of the head gamekeeper. It was therefore not without a
warm glow of satisfaction about the region of his heart that he made
his way homeward through the early morning, reflecting on the ease with
which last night's marauding expedition had been conducted. He even
pursed his lips together and whistled softly--a low, flute-like sound
that might almost have been mistaken for the note of a blackbird.

But it is unwise to whistle before you are out of the wood, and Brady's
triumph was short-lived. Swift as a shadow, a lithe figure darted out
from among the trees and planted itself directly in his path.

With equal swiftness, Brady brought his gunstock to his shoulder. Then
he hesitated, finger on trigger, for the lion in his path was no burly
gamekeeper, as, for the first moment, he had supposed. It was a woman
who faced him--a mere girl of twenty, whose slender figure looked
somehow boyish in its knitted sports coat and very short, workmanlike
skirt. The suggestion of boyishness was emphasized by her attitude, as
she stood squarely planted in front of Black Brady, her hands thrust