There was no answer. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. Her father for fifteen years, and you now for the rest of her life! Tell her you're a thief. ” The conversation hung for a moment. " "Here is the sum you bargained for," rejoined Trenchard, flinging a pocket-book on the table; "count it. “He is one of our guests—perhaps I should say boarders here, but he seldom returns before dinner-time.
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