The Squire handled the packet, felt its thickness, weighed it lovingly in his hand. So much money, so much money in so small a space! Six thousand and odd pounds! It seemed as if he could not let it go, but in the end he placed it in the breast pocket of his high-collared old coat, the shabby blue coat with the large gilt buttons that was his common wear at home. The money secured, he sat, looking before him, while Clement, a little mortified, waited for the word of acknowledgment that did not come. At last, “Did you call at your father’s?” the old man asked—irrelevantly, it seemed. Clement colored. He had not expected the question. “Well, I did, sir,” he admitted. “Bourdillon——” “He was with you?” “As far as the town. He was anxious that the money should be seen to arrive. He thought that it might check the run, and I agreed that it might do some good, and that we might make that advantage of it. So I took it through the bank.” “Pretty full, I expect, eh? Pretty full?” “Well,” ruefully, “it was, sir.” “A strong run, eh?” “I’m afraid so. It looked like it. It was full to the doors. That’s why,” glancing at his watch as he stood by the window, the table between him and the Squire, “I must get back to my father. We took it through the bank and out by the garden, and put it in the chaise again in Roushill.” “Umph! He came back to town with you?” “Bourdillon, sir? Yes—as far as the East Bridge. He left me there.” “Where is he?” Clement hesitated. “I hope that he’s gone to the bank, sir,” he said. He did not add, as he might have, that, after Arthur and he had left the coach at Birmingham and posted on, there had been a passionate scene between them. No doubt Arthur had never given up hope, but from the first had determined to make another fight for it; and there was no police officer at their elbows now. He had appealed to Clement by all that he loved to take the money to the bank, and there to deal with it as his father should decide. Finding Clement firm and his appeals useless, he had given way to passion, he had stormed and threatened and even shed tears; and at last, seizing the pistol case that lay at their feet, he had sworn that he would shoot himself before the other’s eyes if he did not give way. In his rage he had seemed to be capable of anything, and there had been a struggle for the pistol, blows had been exchanged, and worse might have come of it if the noise of the fracas had not reached the postboy’s ears. He had pulled up, turned in his saddle, and asked what the devil they would be at; he would have no murder in his master’s carriage.