Poachers do not work in the daytime, and besides, this man had no gun, but a thick stick lay near his hand.
Austin Ambrose watched him thoughtfully, then a look of intelligence flashed into his face. Blair had described the man he had thrashed on Leyton Green; this was he, this was Jem Pyke! Amongst Austin Ambrose's great gifts was a faculty of never forgetting a face or a name.
Lowering himself noiselessly, he sat down just behind the man, and after waiting a minute or two, coughed slightly.
The man looked round with a start, then sprung to his feet and grasped his stick.
Mr. Ambrose looked him squarely in the face.
"Don't speak a word, my friend, or I shall call," he said.
Pyke looked uncertain, and then made ready for a spring; but the cold eyes—and they were like glittering steel now—held him fascinated.
"Not a word," said Austin, in a low, distinct voice, "unless you want another thrashing, Mr. Pyke!"
Jem Pyke started, and he lowered the stick.