Here a glance at Lilian's face checks further protestations. She is not looking at him; her gaze is concentrated upon the left pocket of his coat, though, indeed, there is little worthy of admiration in the cut of that garment. Following the direction of her eyes, Heskett's fall slowly, until at length they fasten upon the object that has so attracted her.
Sticking up in that luckless left pocket, so as plainly to be seen, is a limp and rather draggled brown wing, the undeniable wing of a young grouse.
"Heskett," says Lilian, severely, "what have you been doing?"
"Nothing, miss," desperately.
"Heskett," still more severely, and with just a touch of scorn in her tone, "speak the truth: what have you got in your pocket?"
"It's just a grouse, then," says the boy, defiantly, producing the bonny brown bird in question.
"And a fat one," supplements Lilian. "Oh, Heskett, when you know the consequences of poaching, how can you do it?"
"'Tis because I do know it,"—recklessly: "it's all up with me this time because the baronet swore he'd punish me next time I was caught, and he never breaks his word. So I thought, miss, I'd have a last fling, whatever came of it."
"But it isn't 'all up' with you," says Lilian. "I have spoken to Sir Guy, and he has promised to give you one more chance. But I cannot speak again, Heskett, and if you still persist in your evil ways I shall have spoken in vain."