t he'll do with all his horses; I should like that
chestnut of his."

"You can't tell what a fellow 'll do," said the voice of Mabbey--"take
to drink or writin' books. Old Charlie Wayne came to gazin' at stars,
and twice a week he used to go and paddle round in Whitechapel, teachin'
pothooks--"

"Glennie," said Sir James, "what 's become of Smollett, your old
keeper?"

"Obliged to get rid of him." Shelton tried again to close his ears, but
again he listened. "Getting a bit too old; lost me a lot of eggs last
season."

"Ah!" said the Commodore, "when they oncesh begin to lose eggsh--"

"As a matter of fact, his son--you remember him, Sir James, he used to
load for you?--got a girl into trouble; when her people gave her the
chuck old Smollet took her in; beastly scandal it made, too. The girl
refused to marry Smollett, and old Smollett backed her up. Naturally,
the parson and the village cut up rough; my wife offered to get her into
one of those reformatory what-d' you-call-'ems, but the old fellow said
she should n't go if she did n't want to. Bad business altogether; put
him quite off his stroke. I only got five hundred pheasants last year
instead of eight."

There was a silence. Shelton again peeped through the hedge. All were
eating pie.

"In Warwickshire," said the Commodore, "they always marry--haw--and live
reshpectable ever after."

"Quite so," remarked the host; "it was a bit too thick, her refusing to
marry him. She said he took advantage of her."

"She's sorry by this time," said Sir James; "lucky escape for young
Smollett. Queer, the obstinacy of some of these old fellows!"

"What are we doing after lunch?" asked the Commodore.

"The next field," said the host, "is pasture. We line up along the
hedge, and drive that mustard towards the roots; there ought to be a
good few birds."

"Shelton rose, and, crouching, stole softly to the gate:

"On the twelfth, shootin' in two parties," followed the voice of Mabbey
from the distance.

Whether from his walk or from his sleepless night, Shelton seemed to
ache in every limb; but he continued his tramp along the road. He was
no nearer to deciding what to do. It was late in the afternoon when he
reached Maidenhead, and, after breaking fast, got into a London train
and went to sleep. At ten o'clock that evening he walked into St.
James's Park and there sat down.

The lamplight dappled through the tired foliage on to these benches
which have rested many