e exchanged it for the old, easy, open, and above-board
society of his chums. Grim, Rogers, Wilson, Poulett, etc., were, on their
side, rather sore at Jack's continual desertion of them and their causes.
They had just seen him pedalling easily after Acton, throwing them a
rather mirthless joke as he ran past, and they had, naturally, held a
council to consider matters.

"Wherever can the beggar get to is what I want to know," said Wilson.

"Can any one tell me what he wants with Acton?" said Grim.

"I think that it's Acton that wants him," said Rogers. "Come to think of
it, Grimmy, you're Acton's man. Why doesn't he lag you?"

"Grimmy's not to be trusted. He'd read the _billet-doux_"

"I don't believe that there's any notes, Wilson," said Grim,
impressively, "in this business. It's something deeper than that."

"What's the mystery, Mr. Grimmy Sherlock Combs?"

"Poachin'," said Grim, solemnly.

"What!" exclaimed the other, with breathless interest.

"Dunno, quite," said Grim; "but that young ass dropped a cartridge from
his pocket the other day."

"There's nothing to poach here, Grimmy."

"There's Pettigrew's pheasants," said Grim, mysteriously.

"But you don't shoot them in March."

"_We_ don't, Poulett, but poachers do."

"Tisn't likely that Acton----"

"Well, don't know," said Rogers, reflectively. "He's lived so long in
France, where they shoot robins and nightingales, that he'll not know."

"But Bourne would."

"That's why he looks so blue. He does know, and it preys on his mind."

W.E. Grim's pathetic picture of young Bourne turned out-of-season poacher
against his will by an inexorable Acton didn't seem quite to fill the
bill.

"Grimmy, you're an absolute idiot. That poachin' dodge won't do. Perhaps,
after all, they only bike round generally."

"What about that cartridge?" said Grim.

The little knot of cronies discussed the matter for a good half-hour,
Grim holding tenaciously to a poaching theory--pheasants or rabbits--the
others scouting the idea as next door to the absurd.

"Look here," said Wilson, brilliantly, "we'll track the pair to their
earth to-morrow. If they're after birds or bunnies I'll stand tea all
round at Hooper's."

"All right," said Grim. "I'd like to know about that cartridge."

On the morrow the suspicious band quietly trotted out after dinner from
St. Amory's, dressed ostensibly for a run down Westcote way. Once down
the hill they lay well out in the fields, kee