"
"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.
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