It was therefore not without a warm glow of satisfaction about the region of his heart that he made his way homeward through the early morning, reflecting on the ease with which last night's marauding expedition had been conducted.

He even pursed his lips together and whistled softly--a low, flute-like sound that might almost have been mistaken for the note of a blackbird.
But it is unwise to whistle before you are out of the wood, and Brady's triumph was short-lived.

Swift as a shadow, a lithe figure darted out from among the trees and planted itself directly in his path.
With equal swiftness, Brady brought his gunstock to his shoulder.

Then he hesitated, finger on trigger, for the lion in his path was no burly gamekeeper, as, for the first moment, he had supposed.

It was a woman who faced him--a mere girl of twenty, whose slender figure looked somehow boyish in its knitted sports coat and very short, workmanlike skirt.