“I cannot tell you the real facts of the case,” answered Tom. “I presume that they are known only to the parties most concerned. But this I can tell you, that I and Mr. Cecil Drake, the young gentleman in question, lived together for three months in Algeria on the most intimate terms; and from my knowledge of him, I feel perfectly sure that his share of the transaction you allude to was that of a strictly honourable man.” The banker blew his nose violently. This Mr. Bristow was a very strange young man, he said to himself. There was evidently a mistake somewhere. Probably the squire had blundered as usual. In the meantime, it might be just as well to be decently civil to him. When the evening came to an end, and the banker was putting on his overcoat in the hall, he whispered in the squire’s ear: “I suppose you know that your balance is seventy pounds overdrawn?” The squire’s face for a moment turned quite ghastly, and he clutched at a chair for support. He recovered himself with a laugh. “I knew it was very low, but I didn’t know it was overdrawn,” he whispered back. “But I know what I’m about, never fear. Just mark my words: before you are two months older, you’ll have a bigger balance to the credit of Titus Culpepper than you’ve ever had yet. Oh yes, I know perfectly well what I’m about.” “I’m very glad to hear it, I’m sure,” said the banker with a dubious cough. “I think we shall have some rain before morning. Good-night, Mr. Bristow. Very pleased to have made your acquaintance. Hope we shall meet again.” The banker took counsel with himself as he was being driven home by his son. “I think it will be advisable to send Edward to New York for a couple of months,” he thought. “In case the worst comes to the worst, the affair can then be broken off without scandal. The squire’s playing some underhand game which will bring him to grief if he’s not very, very careful. Meanwhile, all I can do is to wait and watch.” Strange to say, Tom Bristow’s dreams that night were of Jane Culpepper. “I wonder whether she dreamed about me,” he murmured to himself next morning as he was stropping his razor. “Not likely. And I was no better than a fool to dream about her.” CHAPTER XIV. AT ALDER COTTAGE.