"He! who?" inquired the attorney.
"Why, the poacher, to be sure," replied Jack; "who else were we talking about?"
"Beg pardon," returned Coates; "I thought you might have heard some intelligence. We've got an eye upon him. We know who it was."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Jack; "and who was it?"
"A fellow known by the name of Luke Bradley."
"Zounds!" cried Titus, "you don't say it was he? Murder in Irish! that bates everything; why, he was Sir Piers's——"
"Natural son," replied the attorney; "he has not been heard of for some time—shockingly incorrigible rascal—impossible to do anything with him."
"You don't say so?" observed Jack. "I've heard Sir Piers speak of the lad; and, by his account, he's as fine a fellow as ever crossed tit's back; only a little wildish and unreasonable, as the best of us may be; wants breaking, that's all. Your skittish colt makes the best horse, and so would he. To speak the truth, I'm glad he escaped."
"So am I," rejoined Titus; "for, in the first place, I've a foolish partiality for poachers, and am sorry when any of 'em come to hurt; and, in the second, I'd be mighty displeased if any ill had happened to one of Sir Piers's flesh and blood, as this young chap appears to be."
"Appears to be!" repeated Palmer; "there's no appearing in the case, I take it. This Bradley's an undoubted offshoot of the old squire. His mother was a servant-maid at the hall, I rather think. You sir," continued he, addressing Coates, "perhaps, can inform us of the real facts of the case."