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“No,” said Vladimir, busy with the straps of his game-bag; “it lives in the woods, and eats rabbits and chickens.”

Norah sat down suddenly, and hid her face in her hands.

“Merciful Heaven!” she wailed; “he’s shot a fox!”

Vladimir looked up at her in consternation. In a torrent of agitated words she tried to explain the horror of the situation. The boy understood nothing, but was thoroughly alarmed.

“Hide it, hide it!” said Norah frantically, pointing to the still unopened bag. “My aunt and the Major will be here in a moment. Throw it on the top of that chest; they won’t see it there.”

Vladimir swung the bag with fair aim; but the strap caught in its flight on the outstanding point of an antler fixed in the wall, and the bag, with its terrible burden, remained suspended just above the alcove where tea would presently be laid. At that moment Mrs. Hoopington and the Major entered the hall.

“The Major is going to draw our covers to-morrow,” announced the lady, with a certain heavy satisfaction. “Smithers is confident that we’ll be able to show him some sport; he swears he’s seen a fox in the nut copse three times this week.”

“I’m sure I hope so; I hope so,” said the Major moodily. “I must break this sequence of blank days. One hears so often that a fox has settled down as a tenant for life in certain covers, and then when you go to turn him out there isn’t a trace of him. I’m certain a fox was shot or trapped in Lady Widden’s woods the very day before we drew them.”

“Major, if any one tried that game on in my woods they’d get short shrift,” said Mrs. Hoopington.

Norah found her way mechanically to the tea-table and made her fingers frantically busy in rearranging the parsley round the sandwich dish. On one side of her loomed the morose countenance of the Major, on the other she was conscious of the scared, miserable eyes of Vladimir. And above it all hung THAT. She dared not raise her eyes above the level of the tea-table, and she almost expected to see a spot of accusing vulpine blood drip down and stain the whiteness of the cloth. Her aunt’s manner signalled to her the repeated message to “be bright”; for the present she was fully occupied in keeping her teeth from chattering.

“What did you shoot to-day?” asked Mrs. Hoopington suddenly of the unusually silent Vladimir.

“Nothing–nothing worth speaking of,” said the boy.

Norah’s heart, which had stood still for a space, made up for lost time with a most disturbing bound.

“I wish you’d find something that was worth speaking about,” said the hostess; “every one seems to have lost their tongues.”

“When did Smithers last see that fox?” said the Major.

“Yesterday morning; a fine dog-fox, with a dark brush,” confided Mrs. Hoopington.

“Aha, we’ll have a good gallop after that brush to-morrow,” said the Major, with a transient gleam of good humour. And then gloomy silence settled again round the teatable, a silence broken only by despondent munchings and the occasional feverish rattle of a teaspoon in its saucer. A diversion was at last afforded by Mrs. Hoopington’s fox-terrier, which had jumped on to a vacant chair, the better to survey the delicacies of the table, and was now sniffing in an upward direction at something apparently more interesting than cold tea-cake.

“What is exciting him?” asked his mistress, as the dog suddenly broke into short angry barks, with a running accompaniment of tremulous whines.

“Why,” she continued, “it’s your gamebag, Vladimir! What HAVE you got in it?”

“By Gad,” said the Major, who was now standing up; “there’s a pretty warm scent!”

And then a simultaneous idea flashed on himself and Mrs. Hoopington. Their faces flushed to distinct but harmonious tones of purple, and with one accusing voice they screamed, “You’ve shot the fox!”