"Hallo, Dorrien! I'm deuced glad to see you, but awfully sorry I can't give you any cheering news," began the other. "I know you're the sort of fellow who wouldn't thank me for trying to make things out promising when they're bad as bad can be--and that's just what I'm afraid they are. You see, the mischief of it is that it's an unlimited concern." "Yes," assented Roland drearily. "By the way, I got your line this morning and would have met you at the train, but I've had an awfully busy day of it. I've been going into your affair too; you know, I do a lot in the way of share-broking." "And it's all up?" "It is. You would hardly credit the widespread ruin a smash of this kind involves. Why, there are people who were rolling in wealth yesterday, who to-morrow will be destitute beggars. And there's no foretelling the extent of the calls which will be made on the shareholders. But I say though, Dorrien, don't be so confoundedly down in the mouth, man. It's rough on you to lose a snug little income, but then you've got Cranston to fall back upon. By Jove! I wouldn't mind changing shoes with you this very day. Why, when you're doing Squire of Cranston you'll laugh at all this." He laughed now--a hollow mockery of a laugh, like a smile forced to the face of a galvanised corpse. "Don't you remember my telling you that Cranston wasn't entailed?" he said abruptly. "Yes, but hang it! it'll come to the same thing in the end. And now your governor will--" "--See me to the devil with all the pleasure in life," was the sneering reply. "Why, man, we had the most infernal shindy yesterday ever kicked up between two full-blown lunatics. So now you may perhaps realise the exceeding roseate hue of my prospects in life." Venn gave vent to a whistle and looked grave. "Oh, but--he'll come round in time," he began lamely. "Deuce a bit. I tell you the brake of my coach has given way and that successful vehicle is starting down hill now--off to the devil as hard as it can lick. Even that mythical old humbug, Job, had his afflictions come upon him by relays; mine came all in one day, as you'd readily see, if you knew the facts." CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. JOHNSTON AT FAULT. Eustace Ingelow sat in the summer-house at the back of the Rectory garden smoking his after-breakfast pipe, and with him his youngest sister, Sophie, doing some needlework. They were discussing a letter which the former had received from the absent Roland, also an eventuality concerning Johnston, the Cranston gardener, and the bite he had received from Roy. "Do you think that abominable fellow really intends to bring an action against him?" the girl was saying. "He does. He says he's lamed for life. It's an arrant lie, of course, on a par with that one about going into the coach-house to fetch a broom and Roy flying at him. However, he won't get Dorrien's whereabouts out of me, and I'm rather certain no one else knows it."