This was the cause of Will’s missing the train. When he took his seat in the next train going down, it was with a feeling that now ill-fortune had done its worst, and there was nothing more to encounter. He thought of that wild scene of last night by the banks of the river,—of the strange, sad, unfathomable look of the young actress’s eyes,—of their bitter parting, and the tender words she spoke as he left. Then he looked forward to meeting Dove with a cold fear at his heart: and he was almost glad that the more immediate and terrible business he had on hand would distract his attention. He left his portmanteau at the station, and walked round to the brow of the hill. Before him lay the well-known valley, still and silent under the yellow autumn sunlight; and down there by the river he saw a tall spare man—accompanied by another man and a couple of dogs—whose figure he easily recognised. He walked in that direction, crossing the low-lying meadows and the river, and rounding a bit of coppice which skirted a turnip-field. As he turned the corner, a covey of birds rose just in front of him, with a prodigious whirr of wings. "Mark!" he called, instinctively, though he was quite unaware of the proximity of anybody with a gun. The next second there was a double report; two of the birds came tumbling down, scattering their feathers in the air, and there was a muttered admonition to the pointer. A few steps further brought him into view of Mr. Anerley and old Thwaites, both of whom were marking down the remaining birds of the covey, as the low, swift, sailing flight seemed to near the ground. "Why did you come round that way?" said Mr. Anerley when he saw his son. "I might have shot you." "I shouldn’t have minded, sir," said Will. "I’m getting used to it." "You have your arm in a sling yet? I thought it was all right." "The doctor pulls long faces over it. I fancy the man in the Black Forest bungled it." "If the Black Foresters don’t know how to cure men shot by mistake, they ought to," said Mr. Anerley, with a thoroughly English contempt for any kind of shooting but his own. "Such a set of sparrow-shooting shoemakers I never saw. I suppose I needn’t offer you my gun?" "No, thank you. I’ll walk down the turnips with you, on my way to the house." There was little left in the turnips, however. A solitary bird got up, almost out of shot, and Mr. Anerley knocked him over very cleverly. There was no smile of triumph, however, on the firm-set lips of the tall, keen-faced, grey-haired sportsman. He quietly put another cartridge into the barrel and walked on, occasionally growling at the dog, which was continually making false points. Almost at the end of the turnips the dog made a very decided point. "Ware lark! gr-r-r-r!" cried old Thwaites; and at the same instant a fine covey of birds, startled by the cry, got up out of shot. The dog had really been on the scent of the partridges.