The man was silent for a moment. Then suddenly he burst out:
“Look here, sir, pass it over this time. My missus is ill. She's mortal bad, God's truth she is, and haven't eaten nothing this three days past. An' I thought mebbe a bit o' stewed rabbit 'ud tempt 'er.”
“Pshaw!” Trent was beginning contemptuously, when Sara leaned forward, peering into the poacher's face.
“Why,” she exclaimed. “It's Brady—Black Brady from Fallowdene.”
Ne'er-do-well as he was, the mere fact that he came from Fallowdene warmed her heart towards him.
“Yes, miss, that's so,” he answered readily. “And you're the young lady what used to live at Barrow Court.”
“Do you know this man?” Trent asked her.
“'Bout as well as you do, sir,” volunteered Brady with an impudent grin. “Catched me poachin' one morning. Fired me gun at 'er, too, I did, to frighten 'er,” he continued reminiscently. “And she never blinked. You're a good-plucked 'un, miss,”—with frank admiration.
Sara looked at the man doubtfully.
“I didn't know you lived here,” she said.