It was Saturday and Mr. Carter would be out on the noon train. Peter drove to the station to meet him, still frowning over the question of Bobby and the revolver. He finally decided to warn the boy; there would be time enough to speak if the offence were repeated. Mr. Carter proved to be in an unusually genial frame of mind. He chatted all the way out on matters pertaining to the stables; and as they drew up at the _porte-cochère_ he paused to ask: "Ah, Peter, about this new mustang for Master Bobby, what do you think?" "He's a fine horse, sir, though I suspicion not too well broke. But he's got a good pair o' legs--I should say two pair, sir--an' sound wind. That's the main thing. We can finish his trainin' ourselves." "Then you advise me to get him?" "I should say that ye wouldn't be makin' no mistake. I'll be glad, sir, to see Master Bobby with a horse of his own. He's gettin' too heavy for Toddles." "Very well. I'll do it. You may have Blue Gypsy saddled immediately after luncheon and I will ride over to Shannon Farms and close the deal." At two o'clock Blue Gypsy stood pawing impatiently before the library door with Peter soothingly patting her neck. Mr. Carter paused on the steps to survey her shining coat with the complaisant approval of ownership. "Pretty good animal, isn't she, Peter?" "She is that," said Peter, heartily. "You'd search a long time before----" His sentence broke down in the middle as his eye wandered to the stretch of lawn beyond the hedge. Patrick was visible hurrying toward them, a white envelope waving in his hand, plainly bent on gaining the hole in the hedge and Mr. Carter's side before that gentleman's departure. Peter tried to cover his slip and induce his master to mount and ride off; but it was too late. "Here, Peter, just hold her a minute longer. I think that note is for me." Patrick with some difficulty squeezed himself through the hole--it had been made originally by Mr. Harry so that he might run over and call on Miss Ethel without having to go around; and Mr. Harry was thin. Patrick emerged with hair awry and puffing. He stood anxiously mopping his brow while Mr. Carter read the note. Peter likewise eyed his master with a touch of anxiety; he had a foreboding that the contents of the letter meant no good to the cause of the new mustang. Mr. Carter ran his eye down the page with a quickly gathering frown and then faced the man. "You saw my son shoot the guinea fowl?"