“Wetherell--Wetherell. Oh, yes, you've come about that note--the mortgage on the store at Coniston.” He stared at William Wetherell, drummed with his fingers on the table, and smiled slightly. “I am happy to say that the Brampton Bank does not own this note any longer. If we did,--merely as a matter of business, you understand” (he coughed),--“we should have had to foreclose.” “Don't own the note!” exclaimed Wetherell. “Who does own it?” “We sold it a little while ago--since you asked for the extension--to Jethro Bass.” “Jethro Bass!” Wetherell's feet seemed to give way under him, and he sat down. “Mr. Bass is a little quixotic--that is a charitable way to put it--quixotic. He does--strange things like this once in awhile.” The storekeeper found no words to answer, but sat mutely staring at him. Mr. Worthington coughed again. “You appear to be an educated man. Haven't I heard some story of your giving up other pursuits in Boston to come up here for your health? Certainly I place you now. I confess to a little interest in literature myself--in libraries.” In spite of his stupefaction at the news he had just received, Wetherell thought of Mr. Worthington's beaver hat, and of that gentleman's first interest in libraries, for Cynthia had told the story to her husband. “It is perhaps an open secret,” continued Mr. Worthington, “that in the near future I intend to establish a free library in Brampton. I feel it my duty to do all I can for the town where I have made my success, and there is nothing which induces more to the popular welfare than a good library.” Whereupon he shot at Wetherell another of his keen looks. “I do not talk this way ordinarily to my customers, Mr. Wetherell,” he began; “but you interest me, and I am going to tell you something in confidence. I am sure it will not be betrayed.” “Oh, no,” said the bewildered storekeeper, who was in no condition to listen to confidences. He went quietly to the door, opened it, looked out, and closed it softly. Then he looked out of the window. “Have a care of this man Bass,” he said, in a lower voice. “He began many years ago by debauching the liberties of that little town of Coniston, and since then he has gradually debauched the whole state, judges and all. If I have a case to try” (he spoke now with more intensity and bitterness), “concerning my mills, or my bank, before I get through I find that rascal mixed up in it somewhere, and unless I arrange matters with him, I--” He paused abruptly, his eyes going out of the window, pointing with a long finger at a grizzled man crossing the street with a yellow and red horse blanket thrown over his shoulders. “That man, Judge Baker, holding court in this town now, Bass owns body and soul.” “And the horse blanket?” Wetherell queried, irresistibly. Dudley Worthington did not smile.