Mr. Cope had a fine, handsome modern-built house just outside Duxley. When Lionel arrived, he found his host in the drawing-room waiting to receive him. The squire had not yet come. When he did arrive, he was half-an-hour past his time. He apologized, on the ground that he had been to a sale of cattle some twenty miles off, and had not been able to get back earlier. It was obvious to Lionel, and doubtless to Mr. Cope also, that the squire had been drinking—not inordinately, by any means, but just enough to make him more merry and talkative than usual. After dinner, some splendid old port was put on the table; and it seemed to Lionel that the banker, while drinking nothing but an innocuous claret himself, kept pressing the decanter of port on the squire’s attention oftener than was at all necessary, and seemingly of set purpose. The squire, nothing loath, smacked his lips, and drank glass after glass with evident gusto. As a consequence, he became more merry and communicative than ever. Had Lionel known at the time what a very rare occurrence it was for the squire to allow himself to become, even in the slightest degree, the worse for wine, he might have asked himself whether the banker’s object was not to obtain from him, while in that talkative mood, certain information which it would have been hopeless to expect him to divulge at any other time. But Lionel, knowing nothing of this, was entirely in the dark as to what Mr. Cope’s object could possibly be. “Did you buy any stock at Cottingly, to-day?” asked the banker. “Not a single hoof,” answered the squire. “The prices were ruination. I’ll keep my money in my pocket, and wait for better times.” “You know Cottingly, don’t you?” he asked presently of the banker. “Pretty well,” answered Mr. Cope. “Do you know Drake and Harding, the architects?” “I’ve heard of the firm—nothing more. But if you want an architect, there’s a clever young fellow here in Duxley.” “I know him. His name’s Beakon. He’s quite a fool.” “Quite a fool, is he?” said the banker, equably. “So be it.” “I’ve proved it, sir—proved it. No, Drake and Harding are the men for my money. Everything’s settled. They’ll bring the plans over to Pincote on Wednesday afternoon. If you have nothing better to do, you may as well drive over and help me to decide on the most suitable one.” “The plans! What plans?” said Mr. Cope, in astonishment. “You forget that I’m altogether in the dark.” “Why, what plans could I mean but the plans for my new house?” cried the squire, as he refilled his glass. “I thought I had told you all about it weeks ago.” “This is the first time you have ever hinted at such a thing. But you don’t mean to say that you are going to pull down Pincote!” “I mean to say nothing of the kind,” said the squire, peevishly. “But, for all that, I may be allowed to build myself a new house if I choose to do so, I suppose?” “Certainly—certainly,” said the banker, with a look of deprecation. “I know what you think.”