But twelve thousand! It was such a stupendous sum to name. It needed such audacity to ask for it. And yet it was that or nothing. Less might not serve; while to ask for less, to ask for anything at all, might cost the petitioner the favor he had won—his standing in the house, and the advantages which the Squire’s support might still gain for him. And then it was such a forlorn hope, such a desperate, feckless venture! No, he would be a fool to risk it. He dared not do it. He had not the face. Yet, for a few seconds after the Squire had ceased to speak, Arthur hesitated, confession trembling on his lips. The twelve thousand would make all good, save all, redeem all—ay, and bind Ovington to him in bonds of steel. But no, he dared not. He would be a fool to speak. And instead of the words that had risen to his lips, “I think you mistake, sir,” he said coldly. “I think you’ll find that this is all cry and little wool! Of course money is tight, and there is trouble in the City. I’ve heard talk of two or three weak banks being in difficulties, and I should not wonder if one or two of them stopped payment between this and Christmas. We are told that it is likely. But we are perfectly solvent. It will take more than talk to bring Ovington’s down.” “Umph!” the Squire grumbled. “Well, maybe, maybe. You talk as if you knew, and you ought to know. I hope you do know. After all—I don’t want you to lose your money—Gad, a pretty fool you’d look, my lad! A pretty fool, indeed! But as for Ovington, a confounded rascal, who thinks himself a gentleman because he has filled his purse at some poor devil’s expense—I’d see him break with pleasure.” “I don’t think you’ll have the pleasure this time!” Arthur retorted with a bitterness which he could not repress—a bitterness caused as much by his own doubts as by the other’s harshness. He left the room without more, the keys in his hand, and went downstairs. It wanted about an hour of the Squire’s dinner-time, but Calamy had laid the table early, and the dining-room was dark. Arthur carried in a lamp from the hall, and himself closed the shutters. He locked the door. Then he opened the nearer panel and the cupboard behind it, and sought for and found the agreement—but all mechanically, his mind still running on the Squire’s words, and now approving of the course he had taken, now doubting if he had not missed his opportunity. The agreement in his hand, his errand done, he closed the cupboard door, and was preparing to close the panel, when, with his hand still on it, he paused. More clearly than when his bodily eyes had rested upon them he saw the contents of the cupboard.