And Arthur himself? Confound him, what had the lad been doing? Why had he been silent about the bank’s difficulties and the peril in which his money stood? For, it was only two days ago that he had denied the existence of any peril. And then, again, what was this story about that unlucky night which had cost him his sight? If it really was young Ovington who had come to his rescue and beaten off Thomas, why had not Arthur said so? Why had he never let fall a single word about him, never mentioned the young fellow’s name, never given him the credit that—that was certainly due to him, rogue as he was, if this story were true. There was something odd about that—the Squire moved uneasily in his chair—something underhand and—and fishy! He had a glimpse of Arthur in a new light, and he did not like what he saw. He liked it almost less, if that were possible, than he liked another thing—the idea that this young Ovington’s silence was creditable to him. If it were indeed he who had done the thing, why had he been quiet all this time, and never even said “I did it”? If a gentleman had behaved after that fashion, the Squire would have known what to think of it. But that this low-bred young cub, who had behaved so disgracefully to his daughter, should bear himself in that way—no, he was not going to believe it. After all, the world wasn’t turned upside down to that extent. No! For in his connection with the girl the young scamp had shown what he was—a sneaking, underhand, interloping puppy. In connection with his girl! As he thought of it, the veins swelled on the Squire’s forehead and he shook with rage. His girl! “Damn him! Damn him!” he cried, trembling with passion. And again and again he cursed the man who had dared to raise his eyes to a Griffin—who had stolen his child’s heart from him. No fate, no punishment, no lot was too bad for such a one. Help him! Help him, indeed! The Squire laughed mirthlessly at the notion. After that there remained only his daughter to think of, and as he came back to her and to her share in the matter, more, far more than he wished, recurred to his memory: her prayers and her pleading, her clinging arms and her caresses, the tears that had fallen on his hands, her warm, slender body pressed against his. He could not forget the sound of her voice in his ears, nor the touch of her hand, nor the feel of her body. Words that she had used returned and beat on his old heart, and beat and beat again, tormenting him, trying him, softening, ay, softening him. He thought of the boy, dead these many years at Alexandria, and, yes, she was all that he had, all. And he must thwart her, he must make her unhappy. It was his duty. She knew not what she asked. And she had behaved ill, ay, very ill.