Both Squire Culpepper and Mr. Cope had called at Park Newton as soon as they heard that Kester St. George was down there on a visit, and a day or two later Lionel invited those gentlemen, together with several other old friends of his cousin, to a dinner at the hall, in honour of the occasion. Three or four return dinners had been given by different people, and now the day was come when they were all to go and dine with the squire at Pincote—Lionel, Kester, and Mr. Percy Osmond. The afternoon was cold and gloomy, with frequent showers of rain. Luncheon was just over, and Kester St. George, who had been out riding all the morning, was sitting alone before a cozy fire in his dressing-room, keeping the unwelcome company of his own thoughts. In his hands was a cheque, which Osmond, who had just left him, had given him, in settlement of a long-standing debt at cards. “The greedy hound!” he muttered to himself. “It was like drawing blood from a stone to get even this paltry strip of paper from him. And yet if this were made out for eight thousand pounds instead of for eight only, it would be honoured. Ay, if it were for six times eight thousand pounds, and there would then be a little fortune left. One thing’s very certain. I must raise a couple of thousand somewhere before I’m many hours older, or else I shall have to make a bolt of it—have to put salt water between myself and the hounds that are for ever baying at my heels. If Nantucket had only pulled off the Chester Cup, I should have landed three thousand at the very least. Just like my luck that she should fall lame twelve hours before the race. I must have two thousand,” he went on as he rose and began to pace the room, “or else submit to be outlawed. Osmond could lend it to me and never feel the loss of it. Shall I ask him? As well try to move a rock. He knows that I’m poor already. If he knew that I was a pauper he’d cut me dead. No great loss as things go; still, I can’t afford to lose him. Shall I ask Dering to help me out of my difficulties? No, never! never! Let ruin—outlawry—suicide itself come, rather than that!” He sat down again, still twisting and turning the cheque absently between his fingers. “Only a miserable eight pounds! It’s like offering a quarter of a biscuit to a man who is dying of starvation. Mr. Percy Osmond doesn’t seem to have paid much attention to the art of calligraphy when he was young. Upon my word I never saw a signature that it would be easier to imitate. All that a clever fellow wants is a blank cheque on the same bank. With that, what wonders might be wrought! I’ve heard Osmond say that he always sleeps with his keys under his pillow. Once obtain possession of them, the rest would be easy. But how to get them? Suppose he gets drunk to-night at Pincote, as he is nearly sure to do—why then——” His pale face flushed, and a strange light came into his eyes. He mused for a minute or two, then he got up and rang the bell. Pierre answered it.