COMMOTION IN DEERHAM.
Lionel Verner was strolling out later in the day, and met the shooting-party coming home. After congratulating them on their good sport, he was turning home with them, when the gamekeeper intimated that he should be glad to speak a word to him in private. Upon which, Lionel let the gentlemen go on.
"What is it, Broom?" asked he.
"I'm much afeared, sir, if thing's are not altered, that there'll be murder committed some night," answered Broom, without circumlocution.
"I hope not," replied Lionel. "Are you and the poachers again at issue?"
"It's not about the poachers, hang 'em! It's about Robin Frost, sir. What on earth have come to him I can't conceive. This last few nights he have took to prowling out with a gun. He lays himself down in the copse, or a ditch, or the open field—no matter where—and there he stops, on the watch, with his gun always pointed."
"On the watch for what?" asked Lionel.
"He best knows himself, sir. He's going quite cracked, it's my belief; he have been half-way to it this long while. Sometimes he's trailing through the brushwood on all fours, the gun ever pointed; but mostly he's posted on the watch. He'll get shot for a poacher, or some of the poachers will shoot him, as sure as it's a gun that he carries."
"What can be his motive?" mused Lionel.
"I'm inclined to think, sir, though he is Robin Frost, that he's after the birds," boldly returned Broom.