During their walk the conversation had for the most part dealt with the condition of the birds. The colonel, keen sportsman that he was, telling of the execution effected by the six guns at Fernhurst; describing the big bags made up at Lord Morton's place in Cumberland, and how scarce the grouse had been in various districts in Scotland. As Marston, the head-keeper, had predicted, birds were plentiful in the Dean Copse. Although the ground was rather difficult to work, the guests had good reason to praise the Under-Secretary's preserves. As for the colonel, who scarcely ever missed, he was now in his element; the heavier the bag became, the more brightly the old warrior's eyes sparkled. So excellent had been the sport, and, in consequence, so quickly had the time passed, that the guests could hardly believe their ears when the interval for lunch was announced. Dudley, who was an excellent shot, and who, on an ordinary occasion, would have entered into the sport with becoming zest, throughout the morning had knocked down the birds in a merely mechanical way, more to please his friends than himself. Secretly he wished himself back at the castle, in the solitude of that old library which he used for his den at such times as he was all by himself at Wroxeter. "I think, sir, we ought to try the Holly Wood now," Marston suggested as soon as they had eaten their sandwiches and drunk their sherry. In accordance with this view, they tramped down into the valley by Upton Magna, and presently came to the spot indicated. For the past two seasons Dudley had been down at Wroxeter but seldom, one of the results being that birds were very plentiful. All three of the shooters were kept busy until nearly three o'clock, when, after enjoying a grand day's sport, the party turned towards the old inn at Uffington, where the dog-cart was to meet them. On the way across the brown fields, Benthall, deep in conversation with Marston, was somewhat ahead, and Dudley walked at the colonel's side, a smart, well-set-up figure in his drab shooting-clothes. He was hesitating whether to broach a subject that was puzzling him. Presently, however, unable longer to conceal his curiosity, he turned suddenly to his companion, saying: "You were speaking of Fernhurst at breakfast. Let's see, hasn't Lady Meldrum a daughter?" "A daughter?" observed the colonel, looking at him. "Certainly not. There's no family." "That's curious," Dudley said with an affected air of indifference. "Somebody said she had a daughter named Muriel." "A daughter named Muriel!" the old officer exclaimed. "No, she has a girl named Muriel who lives with her--a ward, I believe--and a confoundedly pretty girl she is, too. She wasn't much _en Evidence_ when I was down there. I have my suspicions that during the house-party she was sent away to the quieter atmosphere surrounding a maiden aunt." "Oh, she's a ward, is she?" remarked Chisholm. "What's her name?" "Muriel Mortimer."