The chateau rose before his eyes again, bathed in sunshine. Then he pictured the terrace overlooking the vineyards--a grey old stone terrace, with many seats and sheltering trees, and along that terrace walked just such a maiden as Aunt Marguerite had described. _Scratch! scratch! scratch! scratch_! His pen and Crampton's pen; and he had no money, and Pradelle's project to borrow as he had suggested was absurd. Ah, if he only had eighty-one pounds ten shillings and sixpence! the sum he now placed in neat figures in their appropriate columns. Old Crampton tilted back his tall stool, swung himself round, and lowered himself to the ground. Then crossing the office, he went into Van Heldre's private room, and there was the rattle of a key, a creaking hinge, as an iron door was swung open; and directly after the old man returned. Harry Vine could not see his hands, and he did not raise his eyes to watch the old clerk, but in the imagination which so readily pictured the chateau that was not in Spain, he seemed to see as he heard every movement of the fat, white fingers, when a canvas bag was clumped down on the mahogany desk, the string untied, and a little heap of coins were poured out. Then followed the scratching of those coins upon the mahogany, as they were counted, ranged in little piles, and finally, after an entry had been checked, they were replaced in the bag, which the old man bore back into the safe in the private room. "Fifty or a hundred pounds," said Harry to himself, as a curious sensation of heat came into his cheeks, to balance which there seemed to be a peculiarly cold thrill running up his spine, to the nape of his neck. "Anybody at home?" "Yes, sir; here we are, hard at work." Harry had looked up sharply to see Uncle Luke standing in the opening, a grim-looking grey figure in his old Norfolk jacket and straw hat, one hand resting on his heavy stick, the other carrying a battered fish-basket. The old man's face was in shadow, for the sunshine streamed in behind him, but there was plenty of light to display his grim, sardonic features, as, after a short nod to Crampton, he gazed from under his shaggy brows piercingly at his nephew. "Well, quill-driver," he said, sneeringly; "doing something useful at last?" "Morning, uncle," said Harry shortly; and he muttered to himself, "I should like to throw the ledger at him." "Hope he's a good boy, hey?" "Oh, he's getting on, Mr Luke Vine--slowly," said Crampton unwillingly. "He'll do better by and by." A sharp remark was on Harry's lips, but he checked it for a particular reason. Uncle Luke might have the money he wanted. "Time he did," said the old man. "Look here, boy," he continued, with galling, sneering tone in his voice. "Go and tell your master I want to see him." Harry drew a long breath, and his teeth gritted together. "I caught a splendid conger this morning," continued Uncle Luke, giving his basket a swing, "and I've brought your master half."