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.”

“Blakeman,” exclaimed Holcomb, unable to contain himself longer, “the man whom you and I serve is my friend.  Sam Thayor never did a mean thing in his life—­he’s not that kind.  It’s his daughter, too, whom I am thinking about.  You’ve known them both as well as I do—­longer in fact—­”

“And far better,” added Blakeman.  “It is a pleasure to serve a master like Mr. Thayor, and Miss Margaret is as good as gold.”  He scraped the mud from his boots as he continued:  “Didn’t I serve an archduke once, who was a pig in his household and a damned idiot out of it?—­but neither you nor me are getting to the point.  What you really want to talk about is madam, and since I believe in you I intend to post you further.  It may be the means of keeping two people happy who deserve to be, if nothing else.”

“That’s about what I was going to say,” confessed Holcomb simply, drawn by the butler’s frankness.

Blakeman smiled—­a bitter smile that terminated with a sudden gleam in his eyes as he leaned forward.