Whatever good Mr. Haw's wealth did to the world, there could be no doubt that there were cases where it did harm. The very contemplation and thought of it had upon many a disturbing and effect. Especially was this the case with the old gunmaker. From being merely a querulous and grasping man, he had now become bitter, brooding, and dangerous. Week by week, as he saw the tide of wealth flow as it were through his very house without being able to divert the smallest rill to nourish his own fortunes, he became more wolfish and more hungry-eyed. He less of his own wrongs, but he brooded more, and would stand for hours on Tamfield Hill looking down at the great palace beneath, as a thirst-stricken man might gaze at the desert .  
He had worked, and peeped, and , too, until there were points upon which he knew more than either his son or his daughter.
 
“I suppose that you still don't know where your friend gets his money?” he remarked to Robert one morning, as they walked together through the village.
 
“No, father, I do not. I only know that he spends it very well.”
 
“Well!” the old man. “Yes, very well! He has helped every tramp and slut and worthless vagabond over the countryside, but he will not advance a pound, even on the best security, to help a respectable business man to fight against misfortune.”
 
“My dear father, I really cannot argue with you about it,” said Robert. “I have already told you more than once what I think. Mr. Haw's object is to help those who are . He looks upon us as his equals, and would not presume to patronise us, or to act as if we could not help ourselves. It would be a to us to take his money.”
 
“Pshaw! Besides, it is only a question of an advance, and advances are made every day among business men. How can you talk such nonsense, Robert?”
 
Early as it was, his son could see from his excited, quarrelsome manner that the old man had been drinking. The habit had grown upon him of late, and it was seldom now that he was sober.
 
“Mr. Raffles Haw is the best judge,” said Robert coldly. “If he earns the money, he has a right to spend it as he likes.”
 
“And how does he earn it? You don't know, Robert. You don't know that you aren't aiding and a felony when you help him to fritter it away. Was ever so much money earned in an honest fashion? I tell you there never was. I tell you, also, that lumps of gold are no more to that man than of coal to the miners over yonder. He could build his house of them and think nothing of it.”
 
“I know that he is very rich, father. I think, however, that he has an way of talking sometimes, and that his imagination carries him away. I have heard him talk of plans which the richest man upon earth could not possibly hope to carry through.”
 
“Don't you make any mistake, my son. Your poor old father isn't quite a fool, though he is only an honest broken merchant.” He looked up sideways at his son with a and a most unpleasant leer. “Where there's money I can smell it. There's money there, and heaps of it. It's my belief that he is the richest man in the world, though how he came to be so I should not like to guarantee. I'm not quite blind yet, Robert. Have you seen the weekly ?”
 
“The weekly waggon!”
 
“Yes, Robert. You see I can find some news for you yet. It is due this morning. Every Saturday morning you will see the waggon come in. Why, here it is now, as I am a living man, coming round the curve.”
 
Robert glanced back and saw a great heavy waggon by two strong horses slowly along the road which led to the New Hall. From the efforts of the animals and its slow pace the contents seemed to be of great weight.
 
“Just you wait here,” old McIntyre cried, plucking at his son's sleeve with his thin bony hand. “Wait here and see it pass. Then we will watch what becomes of it.”
 
They stood by the side of the road until it came of them. The waggon was covered with sheetings in front and at the sides, but behind some glimpse could be caught of the contents. They consisted, as far as Robert could see, of a number of packets of the same shape, each about two feet long and six inches high, arranged symmetrically upon the top of each other. Each packet was surrounded by a covering of coarse sacking.
 
“What do you think of that?” asked old McIntyre as the load creaked past.
 
“Why, father? What do you make of it?”
 
“I have watched it, Robert—I have watched it every Saturday, and I had my chance of looking a little deeper into it. You remember the day when the elm blew down, and the road was blocked until they could saw it in two. That was on a Saturday, and the waggon came to a stand until they could clear a way for it. I was there, Robert, and I saw my chance. I strolled behind the waggon, and I placed my hands upon one of those packets. They look small, do they not? It would take a strong man to lift one. They are heavy, Robert, heavy, and hard with the hardness of metal. I tell you, boy, that that waggon is loaded with gold.”
 
“Gold!”
 
“With solid bars of gold, Robert. But come into the and we shall see what becomes of it.”
 
They passed through the gates, behind the waggon, and then wandered off among the fir-trees until they gained a spot where they could command a view. The load had halted, not in front of the house, but at the door of the out-building with the chimney. A staff of stablemen and footmen were in readiness, who proceeded to swiftly unload and to carry the packages through the door. It was the first time that Robert had ever seen any one save the master of the house enter the laboratory. No sign was seen of him now, however, and in half an hour the contents had all been safely stored and the waggon had driven briskly away.
 
“I cannot understand it, father,” said Robert thoughtfully, as they resumed their walk. “Supposing that your supposition is correct, who would send him such quantities of gold, and where could it come from?”
 
“Ha, you have to come to the old man after all!” his companion. “I can see the little game. It is clear enough to me. There are two of them in it, you understand. The other one gets the gold. Never mind how, but we will hope that there is no harm. Let us suppose, for example, that they have found a marvellous mine, where you can just it out like clay from a pit. Well, then, he sends it on to this one, and he has his furnaces and his chemicals, and he refines and purifies it and makes it fit to sell. That's my explanation of it, Robert. Eh, has the old man put his finger on it?”
 
“But if that were true, father, the gold must go back again.”
 
“So it does, Robert, but a little at a time. Ha, ha! I've had my eyes open, you see. Every night it goes down in a small cart, and is sent on to London by the 7.40. Not in bars this time, but done up in iron-bound chests. I've seen them, boy, and I've had this hand upon them.”
 
“Well,” said the young man thoughtfully, “maybe you are right. It is possible that you are right.”
 
While father and son were into his secrets, Raffles Haw had found his way to Elmdene, where Laura sat reading the Queen by the fire.
 
“I am so sorry,” she said, throwing down her paper and springing to her feet. “They are a............