Something confident and overbearing in Thornby’s look went to Foxwell’s intelligence at once, and checked for an instant the speech on his lips. But he quickly recovered his nonchalance, and began as if he noticed nothing unusual:

“Good morning, Mr. Thornby. I am much honoured. Pray be seated, sir.”

“I’d as lief stand, sir,” was the blunt answer. “Much honoured you feel, I dare say!”

“And why not?” said Foxwell, pleasantly. “You do yourself a great injustice, surely, if you don’t consider your visit an honour to the fortunate recipient. You must not undervalue yourself.”

“Well, sir, you’ll see how much honour I mean by coming here, when you’ve learnt what brings me.”

“That, I confess, I am impatient to know. But really, will you not sit?”

“No, sir! I sha’n’t stay long enough to tire my legs with standing. My visit will be short, I promise you.”

“I perceive you are in a mood of shortness.”

“I can choose my own moods, sir,” said the Squire, rendered more savage by every successive speech of his enemy. “And I choose short moods for my visits to you. Not that I meant to pay you a visit when I left home this morning. My business took me past your gate, and, as I have something for your ears, I thought I’d as well say it soon as late.”

“A very wise thought; for accidents will happen, and ’twould be a pity if anything so interesting should be left unsaid—for I know it must be interesting.”

“Maybe you’ll find it so, ecod! As for leaving things unsaid, lemme tell you, sir, that’s a policy I recommend to you in future, whenever you feel inclined to try your wit upon me. If a witty thing, as you consider it, comes into your head to say against me, leave it unsaid. That’s my commands, sir, and I look to see ’em obeyed.”

“Commands? Upon my soul, Mr. Thornby,—pardon my smiling,—but you are exceedingly amusing.”

“Smile your bellyfull; you may laugh, too: we’ll see which on us laughs last. Ecod, we’ll see that! Try some of your town wit upon me the next time we meet in company! Try it, and see what happens.”

“Can’t you spare my curiosity the suspense by telling me now?”

“Yes, I can. This is what’ll happen:—I’ll answer you back by asking what you think of a man who robs the dead.”

“Robs the dead?” quietly repeated Foxwell, puzzled.

“Ay, a dead body, in some such place as Covent Garden, for example.—Eh, that touches you, does it?”

Foxwell’s face had indeed undergone a change: for an instant he was quite pale and staring. But he recovered his outward equanimity.

“Please explain yourself,” he said, with composure.

“A word to the wise is enough, sir. If ever again you try to put me down afore company, or dare to take first place o’ me anywheres, I’ll tell the world who got Lord Hilby’s money that night in Covent Garden.”

Foxwell drew a deep breath, and then replied as calmly as before, “Are you walking in a dream, Mr. Thornby? Really, I don’t understand you. What is Lord Hilby’s money to me?”

“No use trying that game upon me, Foxwell. You know all, and I know all, and there’s an end. You’ve heard my commands: act as you think best.”

“Sir, I know nothing. Your words are gibberish to me, and I say but this: if you attempt to raise any slander against me, be sure I will make you answer—”

“And I’ll answer, ecod, by producing this here letter,” blurted Thornby, bringing from his pocket the document we have already seen in the hands of Jeremiah Filson, and holding it high, with the signed part in Foxwell’s view, “which you wrote in the sponging-house to Sir John Thisleford, and which anybody who knows your hand can swear to—as your face owns to it now. ‘If you don’t help me out of this, I will confess all, and let the world know who got Lord Hilby’s money that night,’ says you, in black and white. ‘Confess all,’ d’ye see? Signed ‘R. Foxwell.’ Your wit failed you that time, I’m a-thinking. What ’ud the county say if I exhibited this here bit o’ writing? Even your town friends, as I hear be a-visiting you, would find this more nor they could swallow, I dare say.”

“Let me see the letter—closer,” said Foxwell, in a hushed and quaking voice.

“I value it too much as a bit o’ your beloved handwritin’.” The Squire repocketed it carefully, with a grim chuckle at his own humour. “As to how I shall use it, that depends partly on how you use me. But I don’t promise anything. I hold it over your head, neighbour Foxwell,—like the sword of Dionassius in the story-book—over your head, ecod! Ha! Good day, Foxwell. Go back to your pleasures—I’ll show myself out.”

Foxwell made an effort to regain his self-possession. “’Tis a forgery—I defy you—this is a trumped-up tale—”

“We shall see. You’d go near killing to get the letter from me, I’ll warrant.” With this parting shot, his heavy features stretched in a leer of triumph, the Squire stalked from the room, leaving Foxwell—silent and shaken—to his thoughts.

The victorious Squire had to pass through the wide entrance-hall to reach the forecourt, where his man Bartholomew awaited with the horses. He stopped in the hall, which was for the moment deserted, in order to refold the precious letter and place it more securely. As he pocketed it once more, he turned his glance toward the closed door of the drawing-room, soliloquizing after this fashion, “I’ll make him play the whipped cur afore I’ve done with him. He shall come when I call, so he shall,—and go when I bid, and speak when I allow, and hold his tongue when I command. You fine beau of the town, you’ll make a jest of us country gentlemen, will you?—you’ll teach us manners, will you?—Eh, who’s this?”

The hall was panelled in oak, decorated with heads of stags and foxes, provided with a large fireplace, and furnished with chairs and settles. At one side, the stairway began which led to the upper floors, and the Squire’s ejaculation was caused by the appearance of somebody on those stairs—a young lady, rather slight, but well-shaped, with a very pretty face distinguished by a somewhat rebellious expression; and with a pair of eyes that set the Squire agape with the wonder of a new sensation, as they rested for an instant full upon him.

“Sure I suppose you be the niece that came home t’other day,” said the Squire, as she stepped from the lowest stair. He had not relaxed his gaze from his first sight of her, nor did he now.

Georgiana replied by making a curtsey, and was about to pass on. But Mr. Thornby, with as great politeness as he could put into his tone, detained her as much by an unconscious gesture as by speech.

“Sure I heard tell as Foxwell’s niece had come home, but I ne’er expected to see such a young lady! Why, miss, or mistress, begging your pardon if I make too free, but there bean’t your match in the county; that there bean’t—I’ll take my oath of it! I’m your neighbour, Thomas Thornby, at your service. Mayhap you’ve heard o’ me.”

“I have heard your name, Mr. Thornby,” said Georgiana, looking quite tolerantly upon him.

“But not heard much good o’ me, if you heard it from your uncle, I’ll warrant. You mustn’t believe all he has said against me, Miss Foxwell. ’Tis like he’ll give a different account o’ me after this: I’ve just had a talk with him, and he knows me a little better. Ecod, miss, I hope you and me can be good neighbours, at all events. Such a face!—excuse the freedom, mistress, but we don’t run across such faces every day hereabouts. There’ll be some, that think themselves beauties, will turn green when they see you at the assembly ball. Ecod, we shall have somebody worth a toast now; for between you and me, the beauties of this neighbourhood don’t muster enough good looks among ’em all to do credit to the punch we drink their healths in. At any rate, that’s my opinion, and explains why I’m still a bachelor. I’m not easy pleased, ma’am; no doubt I look a plain fellow in these here old clothes, but anybody’ll tell you how fastidious Tom Thornby is when it comes to dogs, horses, and women. ’Tis well known, ma’am.”

“I am the more obliged for your compliments, sir; and I wish you good morning,” said Georgiana, amiably, and, after another curtsey, performed with unexpected swiftness, she got away by the nearest door before her new admirer could summon an idea for another speech.

Thornby stared wistfully at the door by which she had left. Indeed he made a step or two toward it; but, thinking better, stopped and drew a ponderous sigh. A servant came into the hall from the forecourt, whereupon the Squire abruptly took his departure. As he rode mutely out of the courtyard, followed by Bartholomew, his countenance betokened thoughts quite other than those with which he had left Foxwell’s presence a minute or two earlier. When he had passed through the village, Thornby motioned his man to ride beside him, and began to converse upon Mr. Foxwell and his present habits. In the course of the talk, it came out, as Bartholomew had been informed by Caleb while waiting in the courtyard, that Foxwell and his guests were accustomed to make some excursion on horseback every day, leaving the niece at home. The consequence of this knowledge was that next day, soon after the party had sallied forth as usual, a servant came to Miss Foxwell in her own small parlour to say that Mr. Thornby waited upon her in the drawing-room.

Mystified, but desiring not to offend, she went to him immediately. He was sprucely dressed, beaming, and all deference. For two hours he sat and sustained the chief burden of a general conversation upon everything in the neighbourhood. While he was more moderate and indirect in his frequent compliments than he had been on the previous day, he maintained a steady gaze of admiration, no less overpowering. Georgiana, wearied to death, had finally to plead household duties in order to dislodge him.

The following day was Sunday, and Miss Foxwell, making her first appearance at the village church, found herself again the object of the Squire’s constant attention, as indeed of the whole congregation’s, although she divided the latter with the London ladies. That evening she was discussed at Thornby Hall by the cronies who happened to be sharing the Squire’s bachelor table; and such was the praise uttered by several gay dogs who considered themselves devilish good judges that Mr. Thornby was kept secretly alternating between elation and jealousy. It needed only this approval and covetousness on the part of others, to complete the Squire’s sense of the young lady’s surpassing excellence.

In the morning, to Bartholomew’s considerable wonder, Mr. Thornby again discovered business that took him past Foxwell Court. He had not the courage against appearing ridiculous, to repeat his visit so soon, but he rode very slowly in passing the place, both going and coming; and, welcoming a pretext for remaining as long as possible in the near vicinity, he no sooner saw, through the doorway of the village ale-house, a man who was now a guest there, than he drew up his horse with alacrity, saying to his attendant, “The very fellow I desired to see: we’ll tarry here awhile, Bartholomew.”

The man in the ale-house came forth as Mr. Thornby dismounted, and offered that respectful greeting which the Squire was so conscious of deserving and Jeremiah Filson so capable of bestowing.

“Good day, Filson; good day t’ye. I don’t wish to come indoors: we’ll walk to and fro here on the green.—I’ve been anxious to see you, Filson, to know how you’re faring in respect of your Jacobite.”

“Poorly, sir, poorly as yet; though I take it most kind of your Worship to be concerned upon the matter.”

“Concerned? In course—why the devil not? Ain’t I a magistrate? Didn’t I give you the warrant? D’ye think I dropped the matter there? I’m as keen upon punishing the rebels as any man in England. Once you discover where the fellow is, you’ll see how ready my officers are to help you take him.”

Filson was rather surprised at this sudden zeal, for the Squire, after purchasing the Foxwell letter and granting the Everell warrant, had not shown a desire for more of Filson’s society, so that Jeremiah had been forced to curry favour with the justice’s clerk, that he might rely upon the ready co?peration of the legal officers in apprehending the rebel. But he kept his surprise to himself.

“I’m quite sure of that, sir. I hope I shall track the man to his cover, with the aid of Providence. I hate to give a thing up, sir, once I’ve set myself to do it. When I start upon a chase, no matter what’s the game, I can’t leave it unfinished, and that’s why I still linger here, though at some little expense to myself. But we act as we’re made; and I’m made like that, your Worship.”

“It does you credit, Filson: I like a staying hound. But are you sure, now, the man is still in this neighbourhood?”

“I don’t presume to be sure of anything, sir; but I trace him to this neighbourhood and no farther. ’Twas on or about this very spot, your honour, that he was seen by the postilion whom I met that same night at the inn where I had the honour of first making your acquaintance. The next day, you’ll remember, I had the privilege of transacting some business with your Worship. I came directly from your house to this, but my gentleman had fled the night before. He told the landlord a cock-and-bull story of having found a wagon to take him on to Burndale. But the landlord spied on him, and saw no wagon at the place he said it was waiting. Furthermore, the landlord declares the gentleman disappeared from sight at that very place. It was night-time, and the truth must be, that the gentleman turned aside from the road. Howsoever, that’s the last account I can get of him—his disappearance at the bridge yonder. I’ve been to Burndale, but no such person has been seen there, or between here and there. Neither is there any trace of his doubling back over his course. And, besides, if he was bound for Burndale, or that side of the kingdom, why should he have come so far by the road I found him in?—there are shorter ways to Burndale from Scotland. No, sir, if I may express an opinion to your Honour, his business must have been in this neighbourhood, not beyond it; he has f............