The front door stood open. “There’s a po-chay, right enough,” Calamy informed him. “And luggage. Seems to ha’ come some way, too.” “Umph! Take me in. And tell me who it is. Then go.” The butler opened the door, and guided the old man into the room. A glance informed him who the visitor was, but he continued to give all his attention to his master, in this way subtly conveying to the stranger that he was of so little importance as to be invisible. Nor until the Squire had reached the table and set his hand on it did Calamy open his mouth. Then, “It’s Mr. Ovington,” he announced. “Mr. Ovington?” “Ay, the young gentleman.” “Ah!” The old man stood a moment, his hand on the table. Then, “Put me in my chair,” he said. “And go. Shut the door.” And when the man had done so, “Well!” heavily, “what have you come to say? But you’d best sit. Sit down! So you didn’t go to London? Thought better of it, eh, young man? Ay, I know! Talked to your father and saw things differently? And now you’ve come to give me another dose of fine words to keep me quiet till the shutters go up? And if the worst comes to the worst, your father’s told you, I suppose, that I can’t prosecute—family name, eh? That’s what you’ve come for, I suppose?” “No, sir,” Clement answered soberly. “I’ve not come for that. And my father——” The Squire struck his stick on the floor. “I don’t want to hear from him!” he cried with violence. “I want no message from him, d’you hear? I’m not come down to that! And as for your excuses, young gentleman——” “I am not come with any excuses,” Clement answered, restraining himself with difficulty—but after all the old man had had provocation enough to justify many hard words, and he was blind besides. As he sat there, glaring sightlessly before him, his hands on his stick, he was a pathetic figure in his anger and helplessness. “I’ve been to town, as I said I would.” The Squire was silent for some seconds. “And come back?” he exclaimed. “Well, yes, sir,” with a smile. “I’m here.” “Umph? How did you do it?” “I posted up and came down as far as Birmingham by the Bull and Mouth coach. I posted on this morning.” “Well, you’ve been devilish quick!” The Squire admitted it reluctantly. He hardly knew whether to believe the tale or not. “You didn’t wait long there, that’s certain. And did as little, I suppose. Bank’s going, I hear?” “I hope not.” “Pooh!” the Squire said impatiently. “You may speak out! Speak out, man! There is no one here.” “There’s some danger, I’m afraid.”