"I suppose Ben thinks he’ll pile it on until he makes me give in," said Mr. Field to himself, as he paced up and down the terrace next morning. "Rather than do that I’ll sell Farncourt and take another place. A good idea too! I wonder I never thought of it before. There is no doubt people about here have given me the cold shoulder--those I should care to meet, I mean--and I’m pretty well sick of it by this time. I shan’t be sorry to be rid of that ramrod of an earl and his stuck-up friends. I saw there was a nice estate in Gloucestershire advertised for sale the other day. I’ll take a run over and see what it’s like. Julius is getting on well now, and I suppose I shall soon have to be thinking of sending him to some good public school. It seems the right thing to do, if he is to take his proper place in the world. I should be glad of a pleasant neighbour or two, when he is gone, who would join me in a shoot now and then, or come in sometimes to have a chat. It’s rather monotonous always going about by myself, and things are apt to get on one’s mind a bit." Mr. Field took a few more turns and then threw away his cigar. "I think I’ll go and have a pot at the pheasants before lunch," he said. "At any rate, I’ll get a little relief from the noise of that abominable donkey. He seems to have a throat of iron, the way he goes on making that everlasting row!" He went into the house and fetched his gun. He was rather proud of his pheasants, having introduced a rare and much-talked-of breed into his coverts. The worst was, that at present the birds were so tame they afforded little more sport than would be enjoyed by shooting hens in a farmyard. Accustomed as they were to the careful feeding and supervision of the keepers, they knew little as yet of the murderous power of the gun. On his way to the plantations, Mr. Field encountered his head man, whose countenance wore an unwonted expression of gloom. "Hullo! What’s the matter, Jones?" he enquired. "You look as if you’d just swallowed a dose of poison." "It’s not poison as is troubling me, sir," replied the gamekeeper lugubriously. "It is nets as is doing the deadly work, and seeing they make no noise, and usually leave no traces, it’s a difficult job to lay hands on him who spreads ’em." "What do you mean?" enquired his master. "Is anything wrong with the new pheasants?" "That’s just what it is, sir," was the reply. "I was on my way to tell you about it now. I’ve been noticing for some time past that they were disappearing, mysterious like, only I put it down to some of ’em having been enticed over to the earl’s preserves in yonder copse, seeing his keeper is feeding his birds there too. But I found a bit of a net yesterday, hanging on a bush, and footsteps near by, what made me suspect there might be poachers about, doing business on their own account, when I’m out of the way." "You have seen no one hanging about, have you, Jones?" asked Mr. Field.