he pair were posed when Paul Mario and Donald Courtier came down the
steep path skirting the dell. Don grasped Paul by the arm.

"As I live," he said, "there surely is my kindly coy nymph of the
woods--now divinely visible--who led me to your doors!"

Together they stood, enchanted by the girl's wild beauty, which that
wonderful setting enhanced. But Flamby had heard their approach, and,
flinging one rapid glance in their direction, she ran off up a sloping
aisle of greenwood and was lost to view.

At the same moment Fawkes, hitherto invisible from the path, stooped to
recover his fowling-piece and turned, looking up at the intruders.
Recognising Paul Mario, he raised the peak of his cap and began to climb
the dell-side, head lowered shamefacedly.

"It's Fawkes," said Paul--"Uncle Jacques' gamekeeper. Presumably this
wood belonged to him."

"Lucky man," replied Don. "Did he also own the wood-nymphs?"

Paul laughed suddenly and boyishly, as was his wont, and nodded to
Fawkes when the latter climbed up on to the path beside them. "You are
Luke Fawkes, are you not?" he asked. "I recall seeing you yesterday with
the others."

"Yes, sir," answered Fawkes, again raising the peak of his cap.

Having so spoken Fawkes become like a man of stone, standing before
them, gaze averted, as a detected criminal. One might have supposed that
a bloody secret gnawed at the bosom of Fawkes; but his private life was
blameless and his past above reproach. His wife acted as charwoman at
the church built by Sir Jacques.

"Did you not observe a certain nymph among the bluebells, Fawkes?" asked
Don whimsically.

At the first syllable Fawkes sprang into an attitude of alert and
fearful attention, listened as to the pronouncement of a foreman juror,
and replied, "No, sir," with the relieved air of a man surprised to find
himself still living. "I see Flamby Duveen, I did," he continued, in his
reedy voice--"poachin', same as her father...."

"Poachin'--same as her father," came a weird echo from the wood.

Paul and Don stared at one another questioningly, but Fawkes' sandy
countenance assumed a deeper hue.

"She's the worst character in these parts," he went on hastily. "Bad as
her father, she is."

"Father, she is," mocked the echo.

"She'll come to a bad end," declared the now scarlet Fawkes.

"A bad end," concurred the magical echo, its accent and intonation
eerily reproducing those of the gamekeeper. Then: "Whose wife stole th