“I’ll find him,” Clement said. And he meant it. His blood was hot, he had tasted of adventure and he found it more to his liking than day-books and ledgers. And already he had made up his mind that it was his business to pursue Thomas. He was angered by the rascal’s cowardly attack upon an old man, and were it only for that he would take him. But apart from that he saw that if he recovered the Squire’s money it would be another point to his credit—if the Squire recovered. If the old man did not, well, still he would have done something. As he rode home, and passed the scene of the robbery, he laid his plans. He would leave the search in that district to the Head Constable at Aldersbury. But he expected little from this. In those days if a man was robbed it was the man’s own business and that of his friends to follow the thief and seize him if they could. In London the Bow Street Runners saw to it, and in one or two of the big cities there were police officers organized on similar lines. But in the country there were only parish constables, elderly men, often chosen because they were past work. Clement knew, then, that he must rely on himself, and he tried to imagine what Thomas would do, and what route he would take if he made for Manchester. Not through Aldersbury, for there he would run the risk of recognition. Nor would he venture into either of the direct roads thence—through Congleton or by Tarporley; for it was along these roads that he would be likely to be followed. How, then? Through Chester, Clement fancied. The man was already on the Chester side of Aldersbury, and he could make at once for that place, while in the full stream of traffic between Chester and Manchester his traces would be lost. Travelling on foot and by night, he might reach Chester about ten in the morning, and probably, having money and being footsore, he would take the first Manchester coach that left after ten. At this point Clement found himself crossing the West Bridge, the faint scattered lights of the town rising to a point before him. His first business was to knock up the constable and tell his tale. This done, he made for the bank, where he found the household awaiting his coming in some alarm, for it was close on midnight. Here he had to tell his story afresh, amid expressions of wonder and pity, while Betty fetched sponge and water and bathed his cheek; nor, modestly as he related his doings, could he quite conceal the part that he had played. The banker listened, approved, and for once experienced a new sensation. He was proud of his son. Moreover, as a dramatic sequel to the Squire’s withdrawal of the money, the story touched him home. Then Clement, as he ate his supper, came to his point. “I’m going after him,” he said. The banker objected. “It’s not your business, my lad,” he said. “You’ve done enough, I’m sure.” “But the point is—it’s bank money, sir.” Clement had grown cunning. “It was—this morning.”