“And--and you think it is right?” said Bartley Bradstone in a low voice. “I’m sure of it, sir,” replied Mowle. “I got it from a source which has never yet sold me. I’d stake my oath upon it, sir.” Bartley Bradstone went to the window and looked out, probably to hide the light of satisfaction which gleamed in his eyes. Then, after a moment or two, he turned to Mowle again. “You were quite right to come down with this, Mowle,” he said; “it is too important to be trusted to a wire.” “Thank you for your approbation, Mr. Bartley,” said Mowle, servilely. “According to this,” said Bradstone, touching the paper with his forefinger, “the person named--we will mention no names, Mowle, just, take the initial V.--according to this information V. is liable for something like forty thousand pounds. That’s so?” “That is so,” assented Mowle, blinking, and rubbing his chin. “Rather more than less, Mr. Bartley. Nearer fifty. Of course it’s a secret.” “How do you account for it?” asked Bartley Bradstone, thoughtfully, and watching his companion covertly and closely. Mr. Mowle stretched his lips into the undertaker-like smile, and coughed. “Seems singular and improbable, doesn’t it, sir? Here’s a gentleman, a tip-top swell, as we may say, one of the old county families, looked up to and respected as a sound man, and yet----” He rubbed his chin, and smiled again. “This is the key to the riddle, Mr. Bartley: Wild oats!” Bartley Bradstone sank into a chair and nodded. “Wild oats, sir! Mr. V. began it early, and kept it up as long as he could. Went to the Jews--and the Christians. I don’t know which is worse,” and he coughed again. Bartley Bradstone’s eyes dropped with a faint shadow of consciousness. “Borrowed right and left on _post obits_ and I O U’s and reversions, and on anything or nothing. Quite the old story, Mr. Bartley. Sixty per cent. interest, any interest they liked to put on, so that he had some money to play ducks and drakes with.” “That was before he came into the property,” said Bartley. “Why didn’t he pay it off then?” “He did; some of it,” replied Mr. Mowle. “He has been trying to clear it for years past; but this kind of thing’s not easily got rid of, and these have been bad times for landlords. There are a good many in the same fix as Mr. V., but not so badly, perhaps.” “And he cannot pay it off now?” asked Bartley Bradstone. Mr. Mowle shook his head. “If my information is correct--and I’ll answer for it--he certainly cannot.” “How is it that his condition has been kept so secret? No one suspects it here--in his neighborhood.” “The gentlemen who hold the bills are only too pleased to keep quiet while he pays the interest, of course; sixty per cent.” “Of course,” assented Bartley, “and have you got a list of the names of these people?” “Yes, sir,” said Mowle, and he handed him a paper from his pocketbook. Bartley Bradstone examined it, and whistled.