But before they crossed the threshold they were intercepted. Miss Peacock, her plumage ruffled, and that which the Squire was wont to call her "clack" working at high pressure, met them at the door. "Bless me, sir, here's a visitor," she proclaimed, "at this hour! And won't take any denial, but will see you, whether or no. Though I told Jane to tell him----"

"Who is it?"

"Goodness knows, but it's not my fault, sir! I told Jane--but Jane's that feather-headed, like all of them, she never listens, and let him in, and he's in the dining-parlor. All she could say, the silly wench, was, it was something about the bank--great goggle-eyes as she is! And of course there's no one in the way when they're wanted. Calamy with you, and Josina traipsing out, feeding her turkeys. And Jane says the man's got a portmanteau with him as if he's come to stay. Goodness knows, there's no bed aired, and I'm sure I should have been told if----"

"Peace, woman!" said the Squire. "Did he ask to see me, or----" with an effort, "my nephew?"

"Oh, you, sir! Leastwise that's what Jane said, but she's no more head than a goose! To let him in when she knows that you're hardly out of your bed, and can't see every Jack Harry that comes!"

"I'll see him," the Squire said heavily. He bade Calamy take him in.

"But you'll take your egg-flip, Mr. Griffin? Before you----"

"Don't clack, woman, don't clack!" cried the Squire, and made a blow at her with his stick, but with no intention of reaching her. "Begone! Begone!"

"But, dear sir, the doctor! You know he said"

"D--n you, I'll not take it! D'you hear? I'll not take it! Get out!" And he went on through the house, the tap of his stick on the stone flags going before him and announcing his coming. Half-way along the passage he paused. "Did she say," he asked, lowering his voice, "that he came from the bank?"

"Ay, ay," Calamy said. "And like enough. Ill news has many feet. Rides apace and needs no spurs. But if your honor will let me see him, I'll sort him! I'll sort him, I'll warrant! One'd think," grumbling, "they'd more sense than to come here about their dirty business as if we were the bank!" The man was surprised that his master took the matter with any patience, for, to him, with all the prejudices of the class he served, it seemed the height of impertinence to come to Garth about such business. "Let me see him, your honor, and ask what he wants," he urged.

But the Squire ruled otherwise. "No," he said wearily, "I'll see him." And he went in.

The front door stood open. "There's a po-chay, right enough," Calamy informed him. "And luggage. Seems to ha' come some way, too."

"Umph! Take me in. And tell me who it is. Then go."

The butler opened the door, and guided the old man into the room. A glance informed him who the visitor was, but he continued to give all his attention to his master, in this way subtly conveying to the stranger that he was of so little importance as to be invisible. Nor until the Squire had reached the table and set his hand on it did Calamy open his mouth. Then, "It's Mr. Ovington," he announced.

"Mr. Ovington?"

"Ay, the young gentleman."

"Ah!" The old man stood a moment, his hand on the table. Then, "Put me in my chair," he said. "And go. Shut the door."

And when the man had done so, "Well!" heavily, "what have you come to say? But you'd best sit. Sit down! So you didn't go to London? Thought better of it, eh, young man? Ay, I know! Talked to your father and saw things differently? And now you've come to give me another dose of fine words to keep me quiet till the shutters go up? And if the worst comes to the worst, your father's told you, I suppose, that I can't prosecute--family name, eh? That's what you've come for, I suppose?"

"No, sir," Clement answered soberly. "I've not come for that. And my father----"

The Squire struck his stick on the floor. "I don't want to hear from him!" he cried with violence. "I want no message from him, d'you hear? I'm not come down to that! And as for your excuses, young gentleman----"

"I am not come with any excuses," Clement answered, restraining himself with difficulty--but after all the old man had had provocation enough to justify many hard words, and he was blind besides. As he sat there, glaring sightlessly before him, his hands on his stick, he was a pathetic figure in his anger and helplessness. "I've been to town, as I said I would."

The Squire was silent for some seconds. "And come back?" he exclaimed.

"Well, yes, sir," with a smile. "I'm here."

"Umph? How did you do it?"

"I posted up and came down as far as Birmingham by the Bull and Mouth coach. I posted on this morning."

"Well, you've been devilish quick!" The Squire admitted it reluctantly. He hardly knew whether to believe the tale or not. "You didn't wait long there, that's certain. And did as little, I suppose. Bank's going, I hear?"

"I hope not."

"Pooh!" the Squire said impatiently. "You may speak out! Speak out, man! There is no one here."

"There's some danger, I'm afraid."

"Danger! I should think there was! More than danger, as I hear!" The Squire drummed for a moment with his fingers on the table. He was thinking not of the bank, or even of his loss, but of his nephew and the scandal that would not pass by him. But he would not refer to Arthur, and after a pause, "Well," with an angry snort, "if that's all you've come to tell me, you might have spared yourself--and me. I cannot say that your company's very welcome, so if you please, we'll dispense with compliments. If that's all----"

"But that's not all, sir," Clement interposed. "I wish I could have brought back the securities, or even the whole of the money."

The Squire laughed. "No doubt," he said.

"But I was too late to ensure that. The stock had already been transferred."

"So he was quick, too!"

"And selling for cash in the middle of such a crisis he had to accept a loss of seven per cent. on the current price. But he suggests that if you reinvest immediately, a half, at least, of this may be recovered, and the eventual loss need not be more than three or four hundred. I ought perhaps to have stayed in town to effect this, but I had to think of my father, who was alone at the bank. However, I did what I could, sir, and----"

Clement paused; the Squire had uttered an exclamation which he did not catch. The old man turned a little in his chair so as to face the speaker. "Eh?" he said. "Do you mean that you've got any of the money--here?"

"I've eleven thousand and a bit over," Clement explained. "Five thousand in gold and the rest----"

"What?"

"Sir?"

"Do you mean"--the Squire spoke haltingly, after a pause--he did not seem to be able to find the right words. "Do you mean that you've brought back the money?"

"Not all. What I've told you, sir. There's six thousand and odd in notes. The gold is in two bags in the chaise."

"Here?"

"At the door, sir. I'll bring it in."

"Ay," said the Squire passively. "Bring it in."

Clement went out and returned, carrying in two small leather bags. He set them down at the Squire's feet "There's the gold, sir," he said. "I've not counted it, but I've no doubt that it is right. It weighs a little short of a hundred pounds."

The old man felt the bags, then, standing up, he lifted them in turn a few inches from the floor. "What does a thousand pounds weigh?" he asked.

"Between eighteen and nineteen pounds, sir."

"And the notes?"

"I have them here." Clement drew a thick packet from the pocket of his inner vest and put it into the Squire's hands. "They're Bank of England paper. They were short even at the bank, and wanted Bourdillon to take it in one-pound notes, but he stood out and got these in the end."

The Squire handled the packet, felt its thickness, weighed it lovingly in his hand. So much money, so much money in so small a space! Six thousand and odd pounds! It seemed as if he could not let it go, but in the end he placed it in the breast pocket of his high-collared old coat, the shabby blue coat with the large gilt buttons that was his common wear at home. The money secured, he sat, looking before him, while Clement, a little mortified, waited for the word of acknowledgment that did not come. At last, "Did you call at your father's?" the old man asked--irrelevantly, it seemed.

Clement colored. He had not expected the question. "Well, I did, sir," he admitted. "Bourdillon----"

"He was with you?"

"As far as the town. He was anxious that the money should be seen to arrive. He thought that it might check the run, and I agreed that it might do some good, and that we mig............