Part 22 (1/2)

Impulsively he took her hand--a hand which she did not withdraw, for she was trembling. Slowly his face bent nearer her own, his words were sunk to a whisper, but in his eyes there gleamed the craving of her lips.

”Don't!” she protested, raising her free hand--”for G.o.d's sake don't!

_You shall not_!”

”I must,” he answered, hotly.

”You shall not,” she replied. ”I should only suffer--I am unhappy enough as it is,” and she buried her face in her clenched hands, her shoulders quivering.

Even the quiver did not evade the eyes of the man stock still beside the hemlock; no detail of the drama that was being enacted beside the brook escaped him. He who could observe with ease the smas.h.i.+ng of a moth's wing thirty rods from sh.o.r.e, possessed a clearness of vision akin to that of a hawk. A bird fluttered in the underbrush near them.

”What was that?” she asked, with a guilty little start, withdrawing her hand.

”A bird--nothing more dangerous,” he laughed outright, amused at her fright.

Holcomb's features, as he gazed at them, were like bronze. His first thought, as he gazed out from his ambush, had been Margaret's mother!

His second thought was his dislike for Sperry. He watched half unwillingly, with a feeling of mingled curiosity and disgust. He had not pried upon them; it was pure chance that had brought him where he was. At length he withdrew.

He was still thinking of the incident when he heard the brush crack ahead of him. Then the smug face of Blakeman emerged from a thicket.

It was the butler's afternoon off, and he was out after birds. He let down the hammers of his gun as Holcomb drew near.

”Any luck?” asked Holcomb.

The butler drew from the wide pocket of a well-worn leather hunting coat a pair of ruffled partridges.

”Good enough!” exclaimed Holcomb.

”'Twas a bit of devil's luck,” returned Blakeman, dropping into his native brogue, which he always suppressed in service. ”Both birds jumped back of me, but I got 'em.”

”You're a good shot,” declared Billy.

”No, my friend,” replied Blakeman modestly, ”I _used_ to be a good shot; I'm only a lucky shot now. It's not often I make a double. Where have you been?”

”Over to look at some timber on the West Branch.”

”I heard voices,” Blakeman said, ”full half an hour ago”--and he pointed in the direction from which Holcomb had come--”and did you see anybody?”

”Yes,” said Holcomb, after a moment's thoughtful hesitation, ”I did.”

”Whom?”

”Mrs. Thayor and the doctor, out for a walk.”

”Of course,” said Blakeman, looking queerly into Holcomb's eyes. ”You saw them quite by chance, I'll wager. You're not the kind of a lad to prowl on the edge of other people's affairs.”

Holcomb did not reply. He was weighing in his mind the advisability of making a confidant of Blakeman against the wisdom of telling him nothing.

”When you know these people of the world as well as I do, my friend,”

continued Blakeman, as the two seated themselves to rest, ”what you've just seen won't rob you of much sleep,” and he laid his favourite gun tenderly upon a log. ”The very last people in the world--women--whom you wouldn't suspect--are usually the ones. Most of them do as they please if they've enough money.”