llow gorse of a spinney which lay on his left in Royallieu Park.
Rake's eyes were telescopic and microscopic; moreover, they had been
trained to know such little signs as a marsh from a hen harrier in full
flight, by the length of wing and tail, and a widgeon or a coot from
a mallard or a teal, by the depth each swam out of the water. Gray and
foggy as it was, and high as was the gorse, Rake recognized his born-foe
Willon.

"What's he up to there?" thought Rake, surveying the place, which was
wild, solitary, and an unlikely place enough for a head groom to be
found in. "If he ain't a rascal, I never seen one; it's my belief he
cheats the stable thick and thin, and gets on Mr. Cecil's mounts to a
good tune--aye, and would nobble 'em as soon as not, if it just suited
his book. That blessed King hates the man; how he lashes his heels at
him!"

It was certainly possible that Willon might be passing an idle hour
in potting rabbits, or be otherwise innocently engaged enough; but the
sight of him, there among the gorse, was a sight of suspicion to Rake.
Instantaneous thoughts darted through his mind of tethering his horse,
and making a reconnaissance, safely and unseen, with the science of
stalking brute or man that he had learned of his friends the Sioux. But
second thoughts showed him that was impossible. The horse he was on was
a mere colt, just breaking in, who had barely had so much as a "dumb
jockey" on his back; and stand for a second, the colt would not.

"At any rate, I'll unearth him," thought Rake, with his latent animosity
to the head groom and his vigilant loyalty to Cecil overruling any
scruple as to his right to overlook his foe's movements; and with a
gallop that was muffled on the heathered turf he dashed straight at the
covert, unperceived till he was within ten paces. Willon started and
looked up hastily; he was talking to a square-built man very quietly
dressed in shepherd's plaid, chiefly remarkable by a red-hued beard and
whiskers.

The groom turned pale, and laughed nervously as Rake pulled up with a
jerk.

"You on that young 'un again? Take care you don't get bucked out o'
saddle in the shape of a cocked-hat."

"I ain't afraid of going to grass, if you are!" retorted Rake
scornfully; boldness was not his enemy's strong point. "Who's your pal,
old fellow?"

"A cousin o' mine, out o' Yorkshire," vouchsafed Mr. Willon, looking
anything but easy, while the cousin aforesaid nodded sulkily on the
in