"So you knocked over this fourteen-year-old boy like a ninepin. Well, to be sure, I am surprised." And the doctor eyed his niece quizzically over his spectacles. "You're quite a dangerous young person to meet on a country road."
"Well, he called Blanche's hair 'carrots,'" said Marjory, flushing.
"Just like a boy. If he were a dozen years older he would be writing sonnets to that same hair." And the doctor laughed.
Later on he said, "I heard from Mackenzie to-day that there is great excitement in the neighbourhood about poachers. The men are going out to-night to see if they can see anything of them. Mackenzie asked me to join them, but I'm getting too old for that sort of thing. Mackenzie isn't going himself, but I could see he was pretty keen about it. Of course these fellows are a nuisance, and perhaps if I preserved I should feel differently, but I must confess to a sneaking sympathy with them as it is. Don't you tell Forester or Morison, Miss Marjory." And the doctor laughed again.
But Marjory was thinking of the man in the wood What if he should be suspected and taken? Somehow, although she had been suspicious of him, there had been something in his manner, a true ring in his voice, which belied her fears, and she felt that she would be sorry if he got into any trouble. It was some hours since she had seen him, and he had probably gone away by this time; but she felt uncomfortable about him, and as soon as the doctor had finished his supper and gone to his study, Marjory put on a cloak and slipped out.
It was a cold, frosty night, and there was no moon—just a night for poaching work, Marjory decided. She had shut Silky in the house, in case he might bark and attract attention, but once or twice she wished she had brought him. She crept down the garden, and through the gate into the wood, stopping now and then to listen. The night was intensely still, and there were no signs of life; the silence was broken only by the crunching of the frosty ground under her feet, until—listen!—what was that? There was a sound as of some person or some animal in pain. Oh, surely it was not some poor little rabbit or hare, or perhaps a dog, caught in a trap! She must go nearer and see what it was. She walked on in the direction whence the sounds proceeded, and there, lying on the ground, was the figure of a man—the man she had spoken to that afternoon. This was dreadful. Marjory had not known that a grown-up man could cry; his whole frame was heaving with convulsive sobs, and he murmured something she could not understand. She felt at a loss in the presence of such bitter grief, and did not know what to do or what to say. At last she took courage and said gently, "Can I do anything to help you?"
The man sprang up, startled by Marjory's voice.
"Nothing can cure my trouble," he said bitterly. "But how come you out here this cold, dark night? I can't see you, but I know by your voice that you are the young lady I spoke to this afternoon."
"I came out to tell you that the keepers and some of the gentlemen are out after poachers to-night, and I—I thought—" Marjory stammered.
"You thought I was one of them," finished the man, with a short laugh. "No, I haven't come to that yet, but I thank you for your kind thought. It's a long time since anybody troubled as to what would become of me." And his tone was very bitter.