“Nothing to speak of, Clegg,” she replied. “And I'm afraid you mustn't send him to prison this time. I told him if he would empty his pockets he might go. That still holds good,” she added, looking towards Brady, who flashed her a quick look of gratitude from beneath his heavy brows and proceeded to turn out the contents of his pockets with commendable celerity.
But the keeper protested against the idea of releasing his prisoner.
“It's a fair cop, miss,” he urged entreatingly.
“Can't help it, Clegg. I promised. So you must let him go.”
The man obeyed with obvious reluctance. Then, when Brady had hastened to make himself scarce, he turned and scrutinized the girl curiously.
“You all right, Miss Sara? Shall I see you up to the house?”
“No, thanks, Clegg,” she said. “I'm—I'm quite all right. You can go back to your breakfast.”
“Very good, miss.” He touched his hat and plunged back again into the woods.
The girl stood still, looking after him. She was rather white, but she remained very erect and taut until the keeper had disappeared from view. Then the tense rigidity of her figure slackened, as a stretched wire slackens when the pull on it suddenly ceases, and she leaned helpless against the trunk of a tree, limp and shaking, every fine-strung nerve ajar with the strain of her recent encounter with Black Brady. As she felt her knees giving way weakly beneath her, a dogged little smile twisted her lips.
“You are a cool 'and, and no mistake,” she whispered shakily, an ironical gleam flickering in her eyes.