Aldersbury, however, was in ignorance of that news, and when Clement issued from the bank a few minutes after the doors had closed, there were still knots of people hanging about the corners of the Market Place, watching the bank. He viewed them with a sardonic eye, and could afford to do so; for his heart was light like his father’s, and he could smile at that which, but for the good news of the morning, would have chilled him with apprehension. He turned from the door, intending to seek the Lime-Walks by the river, and, late as it was, to get a breath of fresh air after the confinement of the day. But his intention was never carried out. He had not gone half a dozen yards down the street before his ear caught the sound of a horse breasting Bride Hill at an unusual pace, and something in the speed at which it approached warned him of ill. He waited, and his fears were confirmed. The vehicle, a gig, drew up at the door of the bank, and the driver, a country lad, began to get down. Clement retraced the half-dozen steps that he had taken. “Who is it you want?” he asked. The lad sat down again in his seat. “Be Mr. Arthur here, sir?” he inquired. “Mr. Bourdillon?” “Ay, sure, sir.” “No, he is not.” “Well, I be to follow ’ee wheresomever he be, axing your pardon!” “I’m afraid you can’t do that, my lad,” Clement explained. “He’s gone to London. He went by coach this morning.” The lad scratched his head. “O Lord!” he said. “What be I to do? I was to bring him back, whether or no. Squire’s orders.” “Squire Griffin?” “Ay, sure, sir. He’s in a taking, and mun see him, whether or no! Mortal put about he were!” Clement thought rapidly, the vague alarm which he had felt taking solid shape. What if the Squire had repented of his generosity? What if the help, heaven-sent, beyond hope and beyond expectation, which had removed their fears, were after all to fail them? Clement’s heart sank. “Who sent you?” he asked. “The young lady?” “Ay, sure. And she were in a taking, too. Crazy she were.” Clement leapt to a decision. He laid his hand on the rail of the gig. “Look here,” he said. “You’d better take me out instead, and, at any rate, I can explain.” “But it were Mr. Arthur——” “I know, but he’s half-way to London by now. And he won’t be back till Thursday.” He climbed up, and the lad accepted his decision and turned the horse. They trotted down the hill between the dimly lighted shops, past observers who recognized the Garth gig, by groups of men who loitered and shivered before the tavern doors. They swung sharply into Maerdol, where the peaks of the gables on either hand rose against a pale sky, and a moment later they were crossing the bridge, and felt the cold waft of the river breeze on their faces. Two minutes saw them trotting steadily across the open country, the lights of the town behind them.