"It must be John Dillon!"
And it was. The seemingly solitary white figure offered a peculiarly tempting opportunity to the ghost, and he advanced with long and rapid strides (not being aware of the presence of a third party, who was at the other side of the gate and somewhat in the shade). He was within three yards of Helen, and had already stretched out a threatening arm, when,—
"Hullo, John!" in a masculine voice, caused him to pause and recoil a step or two. "I say, you seem to have had good sport?"
John glowered, backed, and would have fled, but Gilbert was too quick for him. He vaulted over the gate, and said,—
"Come here, my friend, and give an account of yourself. It's not every day that I see a ghost! Let me have a look at you!"
Very slowly and reluctantly the spectre slouched back, and stood within a few feet of his questioner. Flight was useless; he had to deal with a man of half his age, and thrice his activity. Moreover, his gun was not loaded.
"And so I hear that you made a capital bag on our bog on the eleventh, John; what do you do with your game? You know you have no game licence and are a terrible poacher; woodcock, pheasants, hares, all come handy to you. My uncle tells me that three hundred head of his long tails were sent away to Dublin and sold last winter, and this in spite of watchers at night, and every precaution; you won't leave a head of game in the county! Now, I don't mind betting a sovereign that you have a brace of grouse in one of your pockets."
Here John, who had hitherto simply stood and glowered, showed signs of moving off, but his captor took him firmly by the arm, and leading him out beyond the shadow of the trees, said,—
"Mr. Darby Chute, if I'm not greatly mistaken! I've suspected you for years. Just take off your cap, will you? Now your beard, if you please?" And, sure enough, there stood Darby.
For some seconds there was an eloquent silence, broken at last by Helen who, notwithstanding her scepticism of Mr. Chute, was unprepared for this dénouement.