“I beg your pardon.” “I say, sir, that I know what you think,” repeated the squire, with half-sober vehemence. “You think that because I’ve reduced my balance during the last six months from nine thousand pounds to somewhere about three thousand, and because I’ve sold all my stocks and securities, that I’ve been making ducks and drakes of my money, and don’t know what I’m about. But you never made a greater mistake in your life, Horatio Cope.” “You do me a great injustice, my dear squire. No such thought ever entered my mind.” “Don’t tell me. I know what you bankers are.” Mr. Cope shrugged his shoulders and looked at Lionel with the air of an injured man. “You don’t believe in any speculation unless you’ve a finger in the pie yourself,” continued the squire. “But other people have got their heads screwed on right as well as you. Why, man, I tell you that in less than six months from this time, I shall be worth an extra hundred thousand pounds at the very least.” “I’m truly delighted to hear it,” said the banker, heartily. “No man will congratulate you with more sincerity than I shall.” “And you ought to be delighted to hear it, seeing that my daughter and your son will soon be man and wife. But, mind you, I don’t mean to turn miser with it. I intend to build, and plant, and dig. You know Knockley Holt, that bit of scrubby ground just outside the park?” “I know it well.” “That’s the spot where I intend to build my new house. The young folk can have Pincote. I don’t intend to pull the old place down. After I’m gone, of course the new place will be theirs as well. And, if I live, I mean to make it a place worth having.” The squire refilled his glass. Mr. Cope, deep in thought, was absently drumming with his fingers on the table. “Pincote is a very old place, is it not?” asked Lionel. “It was built three hundred and fifteen years ago, and it’s still as weather-proof as ever it was. But because one’s great grandfather six times removed, chose to build a house, is that any reason why I shouldn’t build another? At all events, I mean to try what I can do.” “The speculation you have hit upon must be something remarkable,” said the banker, holding up a glass of wine before the lamp. “It is. Something _very_ remarkable,” said Mr. Culpepper with a chuckle. “You would like to know the ins and outs of it, wouldn’t you, now?” “I should, indeed. It’s too bad of you to keep such a good thing all to yourself.” “Ha! ha!” laughed the squire, in high glee. “I thought you would say that. You’ll know all in good time, I dare say. But at present—it’s a secret. That’s what it is—a secret.” “Must have found a silver mine on his estate,” said Mr. Cope, with a sly look at Lionel. “Or a coal mine, which would be pretty much the same thing,” returned Lionel. The squire laughed loud and long. “Ah you’re a sharp lot, you bankers,” he cried. “But you don’t know everything.” And then he winked at Lionel.