“What a beautiful place!” he reflected to himself with enthusiasm, “and how grandly those old towers stand out against the sky. The Squire has restored them very well, too, there is no doubt about it; I could not have done it better myself. I wonder if that place will ever be mine. Things look black now, but they may come round, and I think I am beginning to see my way.” And then he started the horse on again, reflecting on the unpleasant nature of the business before him. Personally he both liked and respected the old Squire, and he certainly pitied him, though he would no more have dreamed of allowing his liking and pity to interfere with the prosecution of his schemes, than an ardent sportsman would dream of not shooting pheasants because he had happened to take a friendly interest in their nurture. He had also a certain gentlemanlike distaste to being the bearer of crushing bad news, for Mr. Quest disliked scenes, possibly because he had such an intimate personal acquaintance with them. Whilst he was still wondering how he might best deal with the matter, he passed over the moat and through the ancient gateway which he admired so fervently, and found himself in front of the hall door. Here he pulled up, looking about for somebody to take his horse, when suddenly the Squire himself emerged upon him with a rush. “Hullo, Quest, is that you?” he shouted, as though his visitor had been fifty yards off instead of five. “I have been looking out for you. Here, William! William!” (crescendo), “William!” (fortissimo), “where on earth is the boy? I expect that idle fellow, George, has been sending him on some of his errands instead of attending to them himself. Whenever he is wanted to take a horse he is nowhere to be found, and then it is 'Please, sir, Mr. George,’ that’s what he calls him, ‘Please, sir, Mr. George sent me up to the Moat Farm or somewhere to see how many eggs the hens laid last week,’ or something of the sort. That’s a very nice horse you have got there, by the way, very nice indeed.” “It is not my horse, Mr. de la Molle,” said the lawyer, with a faint smile, “it is Mr. Edward Cossey’s.” “Oh! it’s Mr. Edward Cossey’s, is it?” answered the old gentleman with a sudden change of voice. “Ah, Mr. Edward Cossey’s? Well, it’s a very good horse anyhow, and I suppose that Mr. Cossey can afford to buy good horses.” Just then a faint cry of “Coming, sir, coming,” was heard, and a long hobble-de-hoy kind of youth, whose business it was to look after the not extensive Castle stables, emerged in a great heat from round the corner of the house. “Now, where on earth have you been?” began the Squire, in a stentorian tone. “If you please, sir, Mr. George——” “There, what did I tell you?” broke in the Squire. “Have I not told you time after time that you are to mind your own business, and leave ‘Mr. George’ to mind his? Now take that horse round to the stables, and see that it is properly fed.