genuine biz,' remarked
the afflicted nobleman with much simplicity. He went on: 'Then there's
my father--you know him. He was against the other affair, but, if he
thinks I have committed myself and then want to back out, why, with his
ideas, he'd rather see me dead. But I can't go on with the other thing
now: I simply can _not_. I've a good mind to go out after rabbits, and
pot myself crawling through a hedge.'

'Oh, nonsense!' said Logan; 'that is stale and superfluous. For all that
I can see, there is no harm done. The young lady, depend upon it, won't
break her heart. As a matter of fact, they don't--_we_ do. You have
only to sit tight. You are no more committed than I am. You would only
make both of you wretched if you went and committed yourself now, when
you don't want to do it. In your position I would certainly sit tight:
don't commit yourself--either here or there, so to speak; or, if you
can't sit tight, make a bolt for it. Go to Norway. I am very strongly
of opinion that the second plan is the best. But, anyhow, keep up your
pecker. You are all right--I give you my word that I think you are all
right.'

'Thanks, old cock,' said Scremerston. 'Sorry to have bored you, but I
_had_ to speak to somebody.'

* * * * * *

'Best thing you could do,' said Logan. 'You'll feel ever so much better.
That kind of worry comes of keeping things to oneself, till molehills
look mountains. If you like I'll go with you to Norway myself.'

'Thanks, awfully,' said Scremerston, but he did not seem very keen. Poor
little Scremerston!

Logan 'breasted the brae' from the riverside to the house. His wading-
boots were heavy, for he had twice got in over the tops thereof; heavy
was his basket that Fenwick carried behind him, but light was Logan's
heart, for the bustard had slain its dozens of good trout. He and the
keeper emerged from the wood on the level of the lawn. All the great
mass of the house lay dark before them. Logan was to let himself in by
the locked French window; for it was very late--about two in the morning.
He had the key of the window-door in his pocket. A light moved through
the long gallery: he saw it pass each window and vanish. There was dead
silence: not a leaf stirred. Then there rang out a pistol-shot, or was
it two pistol-shots? Logan ran for the window, his rod, which he had
taken down after fishing, in his hand.

'Hurry to the back door, Fenwick!' he said; and Fenwick, throw