“Tush!” said he, testily. “Help me over.”
I wished I dared tell him all. Jumping across myself, I assisted him down. Not that it would have answered any end if I did tell.
“Shall I walk with you as far as the houses, sir?”
“No, thank ye, lad. I want to be independent as long as I can. Come you both over in good time on Friday. Perhaps we can get an hour or two’s shooting.”
Friday came, and we had rather a jolly day than not, what with shooting and feasting. Gisby drew near to join us in the cover, but his master civilly told him that he was not wanted and need not hinder his time in looking after us. Never a word did old Westerbrook say that day of Fred, and he put on his best spirits to entertain us.
But in going away at night, when Tod had gone round to get the bag of partridges, which old Westerbrook insisted on our taking home, he suddenly spoke to me. We were standing at his front-door under the starlight.
“What made you say the other day that Fred was not guilty?”
“Because, sir, I feel sure he was not. I am as sure of it as though Heaven had shown it to me.”
“He was with the gang of poachers: Gisby saw him shoot,” said the old man, with emphasis.
“Gisby may have been mistaken. And Fred’s having been with the poachers at the moment was, I think, accidental.”