Harry laughed.
"I don't think Uncle Jack cares much about money," said he. "He looks at the whole matter from a scientific point of view."
"No doubt," exclaimed the Prussian. "No doubt. I dare say he does."
And at that he turned and went slowly up the stairs.
[CHAPTER III—Caught Red-handed]
Some hours after sunset, on the evening of the following day, Jim Braid was stationed in the woods, on the look-out for poachers. His father, John Braid, the head-gamekeeper, was also out that night, keeping watch in a different part of the estate. A well-known gang of poachers had been reported in the district, and, the week before, several shots had been heard as late as twelve o'clock, for which the gamekeepers could not account.
The night was cold and foggy, and Jim wore the collar of his coat turned up, and carried his gun under his arm, with his hands thrust deep into his breeches pockets.
He was moving along the edge of the coverts, which lay between Mr. Langton's bungalow and the house, when suddenly he became conscious of footsteps approaching stealthily through the woods. Without a moment's thought he dropped flat upon his face, and lay close as a hare, concealed in a clump of bracken. From this position he was able to see the path by which the intruder approached; he could also command a view of the windows of Friar's Court, several of which were illumined.
The dark figure of a man came from among the trees. Jim, taking his whistle from his pocket, put it to his lips, and was about to sound the alarm which would bring his father and the other keepers to the spot, when he was arrested by the man's singular appearance.
This was no common poacher. He wore a heavy fur overcoat, and carried in his hand—not a gun—but no more formidable a weapon than an umbrella. On his head, tilted at an angle, was a white bowler hat.