to be at yachting.

"My friend Leithcourt is awfully fortunate in getting such a splendid
old place as this. On every hand I hear glowing accounts of the number
of birds. The place has been well preserved in the past, and there's
plenty of good cover."

"Yes," I said. "Gilrae, the owner, is a keen sportsman, and before he
became so hard up he spent a lot of money on the estate, which, I
believe, has always been considered one of the very best in the
southwest. There's salmon, they say, down in the Glen yonder--but I've
never tried for any."

"Certainly there is. I've seen several. I hope to try one of these days.
The Glen is deep and shady--an ideal place for fish. The only
disappointment here, as far as I can make out, is the very few head of
black-game."

"Yes, but every year they are getting rarer and rarer in this part of
Scotland. A really fine black-cock is quite an event nowadays," I said.

While we were talking, or rather while I was carefully watching the
rapid working of his mind, Leithcourt himself entered and joined us. He
had been playing tennis, and had come in to rest and cool.

Host and guest were evidently on the most intimate terms. Leithcourt
addressed him as "Martin," and began to relate a quarrel which his
head-gamekeeper had had that day with one of the small farmers on the
estate regarding the killing of some rabbits. And while they were
talking Muriel suggested that we should stroll down to the tennis-courts