At that moment the squire entered, and Faradeane saw at once how pale and harassed he looked. Bartley Bradstone, however, appeared to take no notice, and he greeted him in the same half-boisterous way he had done the others. All through the dinner the squire seemed depressed, though he made a valiant attempt to be cheerful, and all through the dinner Bartley Bradstone’s spirits seemed to rise. He took more wine than usual, too, and seemed disposed to linger over the Château Lafitte after Olivia and Aunt Amelia had gone. Faradeane, who rarely drank more than one glass with his dessert, arose. “I’ll smoke my cigarette on the terrace,” he said, and the squire nodded with the gentle smile which the father might bestow on a favorite son. Bartley Bradstone looked after the tall, thin figure with an evil, envious glance. “Faradeane isn’t much in the way of company, is he?” he said, disparagingly. The squire looked surprised. “I think he is the most entertaining of men,” he said. “Oh, ah, with ladies, perhaps,” assented Bartley Bradstone, grudgingly, “but he can’t sit and take his glass of wine like other fellows,” and he filled his glass again. “He doesn’t drink much,” said the squire, absently, and he sighed. “You seem a cup too low to-night, squire,” said Bartley Bradstone, with affected carelessness. “Anything wrong?” The squire hesitated a moment, then took the letter from his pocket. “I did not mean to trouble you with it, though Olivia asked me to do so,” he said. “But perhaps it is my duty to tell you,” and he leaned his head on his hand. Bradstone read the note slowly, then emitted a low whistle. “Mowle, Mowle. I seem to have heard the name before,” he said, as if trying to recall it. “I’ve an idea he is a kind of money-lender. Do you know him?” The squire shook his head, the fingers of his thin, right hand beating a mournful tune on the tablecloth. “No. I’ve no doubt you are right. It doesn’t signify who or what he is; his claim is a lawful one, and I must meet it. I thought you ought to know.” “Yes, if it’s the man I think it is, you will have to meet it,” said Bradstone. “These fellows will have their bond; and you can’t blame them. Business is business.” “I do not blame him,” said the poor squire, simply. “What troubles me is the fact that I do not know how to arrange for his claim.” Bartley Bradstone looked at the letter again. “What is the amount?” he said. The squire, after a few minutes’ reflection, told him, and he whistled again. It was not a loud whistle, but it jarred upon the squire’s nerves. “Look here,” said Bradstone, after an artistic pause. “If you will leave this to me I will try and arrange it for you----” The squire looked up, and his face flushed. “I--I could not permit you to pay it,” he said, gravely.