But it was one night out duck-shooting that his great inspiration came. It was a bitter night, a night on which no sane creature except Jeremy would ever have dreamed of going to shoot ducks or anything else. The marshes were partially frozen, and a fierce east wind was blowing across them; but utterly regardless of the cold, there sat Jeremy under the lee of a dike bank, listening for the sound of the ducks’ wings as they passed to their feeding-grounds, and occasionally getting a shot at them as they crossed the moon above him. There were not many ducks, and the solitude and silence were inductive to contemplation. Ernest did not write. Was he dead? Not probable, or they would have heard of it. Where was he, then? Impossible to say, impossible to discover. Was it impossible? “_Swish, swish, bang!_” and down came a mallard at his feet. A quick shot, that! Yes, it was impossible; they had no means of inquiry here. The inquiry, if any, must be made there, on the other side of the water. But who was to make it? Ah! an idea struck him. Why should not he, Jeremy, make that inquiry? Why should he not go to South Africa and look for Ernest? A flight of duck passed over his head unheeded. What did he care for duck? He had solved the problem which had been troubling him all these months. He would go to South Africa and look for Ernest. If Mr. Cardus would not give him the money, he would work his way out. Anyhow he would go. He could bear the suspense no longer. Jeremy rose in the new-found strength of his purpose, and gathering up the slain—there were only three—whistled to his retriever, and made his way back to Dum’s Ness. He found Mr. Cardus and Dorothy by the fire in the sitting-room. Hard-riding Atterleigh was there too, in his place in the ingle-nook, a riding-whip in his ink-stained hand, with which he was tapping his top-boot. They turned as he entered, except his grandfather, who did not hear him. “What sport have you had, Jeremy?” asked his sister, with a sad little smile. Her face had grown very sad of late. “Three ducks,” he answered shortly, advancing his powerful form out of the shadows into the firelight. “I came home just as they were beginning to fly.” “You found it cold, I suppose?” said Mr. Cardus, absently. They had been talking of Ernest, and he was still thinking of him. “No, I did not think of the cold. I came home because I had an idea.” Both his hearers looked up surprised. Ideas were not very common to Jeremy, or if they were he kept them to himself. “Well, Jeremy?” said Dorothy, inquiringly. “Well, it is this. I cannot stand it about Ernest any longer, and I am going to look for him. If you won’t give me the money,” he went on, addressing Mr. Cardus almost fiercely, “I will work my way out. It is no credit to me,” he added; “I lead a dog’s life while I don’t know where he is.”