Well, After All--

by Frank Frankfort Moore

“Now!” cried Clare, in a tone that seemed to suggest that Agnes could not possibly have further ground for objection.

Agnes raised her hands.

“I am overwhelmed with remorse for having made any suggestion that was not quite in keeping with your inclinations,” she said.

She and Clare accordingly drove to the Court on the next evening, and found Sir Percival in one of the drawing-rooms talking to his host on the subject of the recent poaching in the coverts of the Court and also on Sir Percival's property. The poachers were getting more daring every day, it appeared, and Ralph Dangan's vigilance seemed overmatched by their cunning so far as Sir Percival's preserves were concerned. Sir Percival said that his new gamekeeper accounted for the recent outbreak on the ground that neither of the proprietors had displayed the sporting tastes of the previous holders of the property, and the poachers thought it a pity that the pheasants should become too numerous.

Claude smiled as Sir Percival made him acquainted with his late gamekeeper's theory.

“It is very obliging on their part to undertake the thinning down of my birds,” said he, “and if I could rely on their discretion in the matter all would be well. I am afraid, however, that one cannot take their judgment for granted; so that whenever Dangan thinks that our forces should be joined to make a capture of the gang, I'll give instructions for my keepers to coôperate with him.”

At dinner, too, the conversation, instead of flowing in literary channels, was never turned aside from the question of poaching and poachers. Sir Percival's experiences in Australia had no more changed his views than Claude Westwood's experiences of Central Africa had altered his, on the subject of the English crime of poaching.

Agnes had not been within the house since the week preceding the tragedy that had taken place in the grounds surrounding it. She had had no idea that she would be so deeply affected on entering the drawing-room. But the instant she found herself in the midst of the beautiful old furniture that had been familiar to her for so many years, she was nearly overcome by the crowd of recollections that were brought back to her. She put out her hand nervously to a sofa and grasped the back of it for an instant before moving round it to seat herself.

She felt herself staggering, but hoped that no one had noticed her apprehension, and when she had seated herself she closed her eyes. It seemed to her that she was in a dream. She heard the sound of voices, but not the voices of any one present, only the voices of those who were far away; and it seemed to her that among them was the Claude Westwood whom she had known and loved so many years ago. She had suddenly become possessed of the strange dream fancy that the man who had taken her hand on her entering the room was the man who had killed both Dick Westwood and his brother Claude.

Happily the conversation was only about the poachers, so that she could not be expected to take part in it; and during the five minutes that elapsed before dinner was announced, she partly recovered herself. But the shiver which came over her when she opened her eyes was noticed by Clare.