They put Bobby Junior into the barn, cleaned the Flobert, changed their hunting clothes, and answered with alacrity the summons to the dining room. After they were well started with the meal, Mr. Orde came in and sat down. He nodded abstractedly, and had little to say. The boys were too far down in remorse to care to bring up any of the subjects near their hearts. Finally Mrs. Orde remarked this general depression. "I must say you're a cheerful lot of men folks," said she. "What is it? Business?" She smiled at the boys in raillery at the idea. But she could not cheer them up. As soon as the meal was over Mr. Orde dismissed the boys. "Run along now," said he briefly; "I want to talk." They climbed the stairs to Bobby's room, and sat down glumly on the floor. Reaction was strong, and they had both fallen into aimless doldrums of spirit. Suddenly Bobby sat up straight at attention. The Orde house was provided with old-fashioned hot-air registers. When the registers happened all to be open, they constituted most excellent speaking-tubes. Thus, without intention of deliberate eavesdropping, Bobby and his friend became aware of the following conversation. "What's the matter, Jack? Anything wrong at the office or on the River?" Mr. Orde sighed deeply. "Oh, no. Everything's snug as a bug in a rug, sweetheart," said he. "But I'm bothered a lot. A dreadful thing happened to-day. You know that popple thicket out at Pritchard's place?" Both boys froze into horrified attention. "Yes." "Well, just before dusk Pritchard was found dead near the east end of it." "Why, how did that happen?" cried Mrs. Ode. The boys stole a look at each other. "He had been murdered." "Murdered!" cried Mrs. Orde sharply. "Oh!" moaned Bobby in a smothered voice. "Yes. He was found with a knife wound in his throat." "How terrible!" said Mrs. Orde. "But that isn't what worries me. Pritchard is no irreparable loss." "Jack!" cried Mrs. Orde. "He isn't," insisted Orde stoutly. "But Kincaid was seen by several competent witnesses coming out from that thicket, and as far as anybody has been able to find out he is the only human being who was out there to-day. They have him under arrest." "I never heard of anything so ridiculous!" cried Mrs. Orde indignantly. "There has been bad blood between them," said Orde; "and everybody knows it. That's the trouble. Pritchard, as usual, has off and on done an awful lot of talking." "You don't for a moment believe----" "Certainly not. Arthur Kincaid never would harm a fly in anger. And I rely absolutely on his word." "You've seen him?" "Of course. He acknowledges he was out at Pritchard's, but denies all knowledge of the affair. That's the trouble. He offers no explanation of the facts, and the facts are--queer." "What do you mean?" "Well, this; the men who saw Kincaid coming out of the thicket say he was bareheaded. When Pritchard's body was found, Kincaid's cap was discovered about fifty feet distant."