THE master of Saltire was no mean enemy to be pitted against in such a feud as had arisen over Gabriel, his son. There was much of the bull-terrier about John Strong. He had been born of solid yeoman stock, folk who would have gone stubbornly to the stake rather than admit the power of the pope. Moreover, the ex-tea-merchant had learned to the full in his commercial life the sure power of gold. He had always laughed at socialism. Even Judith could remember him standing before a public building in France and staring contemptuously at the inscription:

“Liberté, égalité, Fraternité”

“Bosh!” he had ejaculated; “the Revolution did not abolish bullion.”

John Strong was not only a stubborn and a very wealthy man, but he was in that pugnacious mood that had served him so well in his commercial struggles in the past. He threw himself into the cause with something of the spirit of an old British sea-dog laying his ship “gun to gun” against the crack “thunderer” of the French fleet.

The day after his interview with Miss Saker, John Strong left by an early train for Rilchester, travelling alone, with no luggage to cumber him. Judith had driven over with him to Rilchester and had taken leave of him there. For fully a week John Strong was absent from Saltire Hall. He returned one evening unexpectedly, looking the more grim and resolved about the eyes, and having the air of a man very well satisfied with his venture.

The following morning he ordered his carriage out and drove in the direction of Gabingly, passing the castle on the south. Half an hour later he drew up before an old manor-house packed with tall chimney stacks and straggling gables. The garden was a wilderness, the house itself smothered in creepers. John Strong walked up the grass-grown drive, pulled the rusty bell-handle, and, withholding his name, desired to see Major Maltravers.

The master of Saltire was shown into the dining-room, that smelled of stale cigar-smoke. The room was but shabbily furnished in the early Victorian style, the panelled walls being hung with sporting prints, the heavy table littered with cheap periodicals, gloves, pipes, and ragged novels. It was some minutes before Maltravers entered, to find a stout, bull-necked little gentleman standing stolidly in the middle of the hearth-rug. The soldier was dressed as for riding, in checks and yellow gaiters, with a gold pin fastening his white stock. He took John Strong for a Rilchester tout or a travelling agent, and was more peremptory than polite in his method of address.

“Morning. Your business?”

“My business, sir, is of a private nature.”

“Private, eh? Take a seat. I’m busy; you must excuse me being in a hurry.”

The master of Saltire remained standing. There was a look of such implacable earnestness upon his massive face that Maltravers regarded him with more consideration than before.

“Well, sir,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

“Your ability to meet my demands is dependent upon circumstances.”

The soldier elevated his arched eyebrows, smiled, and showed his white teeth. He was in debt to no man, and yet this stout little fellow was wondrous like a dun.

“Demands?” he asked.

“I will explain them.”

“May I ask who the devil you are?”

“Certainly, sir; I am John Strong of Saltire.”

The soldier thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and slouching his shoulders, looked at the ex-tea-merchant with his alert, black eyes.

“Mr. Strong?” he repeated.

“John Strong.”

“Have we met before?”

“I guess not.”

“Will you sit down, sir?”

“No, sir; I prefer to stand.”

“As you like,” said the soldier, with a sniff; “kindly explain your business.”

John Strong did so; neither was the matter thereof particularly encouraging to James Maltravers’ self-esteem. The ex-tea-merchant was not a man given to mincing his epithets or performing his facts. He hit straight from the shoulder, and with solid effect.

Doubtless, according to dramatic ideals, Maltravers should have lit a cigarette and poised himself on the back of a chair with a cool and insolent complacency. He should have smiled, glittered with Mephistophelian cunning, and played his part like the clever egotist that he was. On the contrary, the soldier appeared suspiciously uncomfortable, and betrayed a certain uneasiness that even his military hauteur could not hide.

“Really,” he observed with much affectation of surprise, “these are extraordinary remarks, Mr. Strong. You must have been sitting in the sun.”

“No, sir, I have been at Callydon.”

“Callydon, eh?”

“And at St. Aylmers.”

“A pretty place enough.”

“And at Messrs. Goring’s office in London.”

The two men remained some seven paces apart and looked each other over. The soldier, suave and angular, stood with his feet planted wide apart, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his riding-breeches.

“I should be much obliged, Mr. Strong,” he observed, “if you would stop speaking in riddles.”

“Certainly,” retorted the other.

“Am I to understand—”

“You are to understand this, sir—I shall have you prosecuted for conspiring to defeat justice.”

“A large order, Mr. Strong.”

“A damned large order, sir—an order upon which I shall spend fifty thousand pounds with pleasure.”

The soldier stared at him, somewhat stupidly, it must be confessed, for one whose wit was usually so nimble. The whole truth was that Maltravers was a coward, not in the mere physical sense, but rather morally and ethically. Like many a selfish and sensual man, he could play the Pistol when his own sleek interests were threatened. His philosophy was Epicurean in the vulgar sense, a philosophy that shirked any overshadowing of its comfort.

“So, sir, you consider me a criminal?”

“I have my facts.”

The soldier seemed amused despite the gravity of the occasion; the elder man’s face was as stubborn as ever.

“I doubt very much whether you can prove anything.”

“You admit conspiracy.”

“Mr. Strong, am I a fool?”

A flicker of a smile passed over the master of Salti............