The school was making a collection of birds' eggs for its museum. There were plenty of robins' and thrushes' and blackbirds', and all the common varieties, but so far not a solitary specimen of a moorhen's egg. Raymonde felt that even at the risk of betraying their secret expedition she must secure some of these. She decided to go halves, to take two and leave two in the nest to console the moorhen when she came back. She wrapped them in some grass and packed them in her handkerchief, which she slung round her neck for safety. Then taking her bunch of bog bean she managed to scramble back to the bank. The girls were naturalists enough to remove their tree-trunk from the island, lest it should tempt marauding boys to go across and discover the moorhen's nest. They hoped the bird would return and sit again when they were out of the way. Each carefully carrying one of the precious eggs, they went on farther to explore the wood. They had only walked a short distance when Fauvette stopped suddenly. "What's that queer squeaking noise?" she asked. "Do you hear it too?" confirmed Raymonde. The girls glanced round, and then looked at each other blankly. There was no doubt that the persistent chirruping and peeping came from the eggs in their hands. "Oh, good night! The wretched things are hatching out!" gasped Raymonde. They had indeed robbed the poor moorhen at the very moment when her chicks were in the process of hatching. Already there was a chip in the side of each egg, and a tiny bill began to protrude, the owner of which was raising a shrill clamour of welcome to the world. The girls laid them hastily down on the grass. "Those won't be any use for the museum!" exploded Fauvette. "I wonder if we ought to put them back," murmured Raymonde, decidedly conscience-stricken, though somewhat unwilling to venture again over the slippery tree-trunk. She might perhaps have braved the crossing, and restored the eggs to the nest, but at that moment the rain, which had been threatening all the afternoon, came down in a torrent. She felt it had sealed the fate of the chicks. "We'll just have to leave them here. It's like murder, but I can't help it. If we don't get back quick we shall be drenched." As the girls turned to retrace their steps they became aware that they were not alone in the wood. Some distance among the bushes a dark coat and hat were plainly advancing in their direction. Undoubtedly somebody had been watching them and was following them. Wild visions of Black Jack and his "Limberlost" gang swam before their eyes, and with one accord they ran--ran anywhere, panic-stricken, bent only on escaping.