“I cannot think so. He was not the man to put his confidence in any of her sex; and you must remember, sir, that he had always carried a make-believe in his eye-socket, that was a mark of the familiar terror of his glance; and that ’twas his cunning only substituted the stone for the glass. That the thing dropped out anywhere on its passage to and from is the most likely solution.” “No doubt; and we can’t hunt over seven square miles or so of grassy down, as we hunted--that reminds me; you never heard of our discovery in the wardrobe, when----” A joyous whoop sounded in their ears, and, as Tuke got to his feet, the aperture was darkened by the figures of the returned explorers. “Now,” said Sir David, looking down into the pit, with his arms akimbo--“ain’t we heroes? And where would you guess we’ve been to the trouble to pitch our camp?” “Not in mine own grounds?” said Tuke. “No, no!” “Who the deuce has been tellin’ you? P’raps you think that spells the end of our difficulties? Are you Julius Cæsar, sir--or whoever the cove was that went over Mount Blank? I tell you there’s a range of drifts between this and the house as big as Snowdon.” “Then, now comes my turn. Stay you here and leave the rest to me.” As he spoke, distant, but sharp through the frosty air, came the report of a gun. CHAPTER XLII. Tuke scrambled up and out into the open. “Sport in this weather?” he muttered, staring at his friend. “Sounds queer, don’t it? and yet, what else can it be?” The other did not answer; but his eyes retained a sort of startled musing. “Well,” he said at last, “I must try _my_ fortunes.” “We had best all go together.” “No, indeed, my friend. Think of the tax it would be upon Captain Luvaine’s critical perceptives.” “You are so very witty,” said the soldier dryly. “You put the words in my mouth.” “I have had to swallow some of yours, sir. ’Tis just an exchange of courtesies.” “Oh!” cried Blythewood--“the deuce of this sparring! I refuse to hold the stakes any longer.” “Who asked you to, you rogue. You’re getting conceited.” “Where are you going to?” “I have a plan to push out by the tumbled lodge, if I can win there, and see if the drive is passable. It should be.” “Well--why shouldn’t we all go?” “If you move, so do I not. Then see if you can find the way by yourself. No, no--stay where you are. In half-an-hour I will be back as full of information as a verger.” He waved his hand, and ran off, as he could, across the snow. He was stiff and numb with cold; his lips were cracked with it--his fingers felt and looked like ingots of blue steel. There was such a piercing rigour in the air as converted his very breath into frost upon his face.