“No? Well, he never should ha’ been! And so I told him and told you. But you would both have your own way, and you know what’s come of it. Hallo!” breaking off suddenly, and turning his head, for his hearing was still good. “What’s that? Ain’t we alone?” “One moment,” Ovington said. Rodd had tapped at the door and put in his head. The cashier looked at the banker, over the visitors’ heads. “Mr. Owen and Mr. Jenkins are here,” he said in a low tone. “They wish to see you. I said you were engaged, sir, but——” his face made the rest of the sentence clear. Ovington reddened, but retained his presence of mind. “They can see me in ten minutes,” he said, coldly. “Tell them so.” But Rodd only came a little farther into the room. “I am afraid,” he said, dropping his voice, “they won’t wait, sir. They are——” “Wait?” The word came from the Squire. He shot it out so suddenly that the cashier started. “Wait? Why, hang their infernal impudence,” wrathfully, “do they think their business must come before everybody’s? Jenkins? Is that little Jenkins—Tom Jenkins of the Hollies?” “Yes, sir.” “Then d—n his impudence!” the old man burst forth again in a voice that must have wellnigh reached the street. “Little Tom Jenkins, whose grandfather was my foot-boy, coming and interrupting my business! God bless my soul and body, the world is turned upside-down nowadays. Fine times we live in! Little—but, hark you, sirrah, d’you go and tell him to go to the devil! And shut the door, man! Shut the door!” “Tell them I will see them in ten minutes,” said the banker. But the old man was still unappeased. “That’s what we’re coming to, is it?” he fumed. “Confound their impudence,” wiping his brow, “and they’ve put me out, too! I dunno where I was. Is the door closed? Oh, ’bout my nephew! I didn’t wish it, I’ve said that, and I’ve said it often, but he’s in. He’s in with you, banker, and he’s lugged me in! For, loth as I am to see him in it, I’m still lother that any one o’ my name or my blood should be pointed at as the man that’s lost the countryside their money! Trade’s bad, out of its place. But trade that fails at other folks’ cost and ruins a sight of people who, true or false, will say they’ve been swindled——” “Stop!” the banker could bear it no longer, and he stepped forward, his face pale. “No one has swindled here! No one has been robbed of his money. No one—if it will relieve your feelings to know it, Mr. Griffin will lose by the bank in the end. I shall pay all demands within a few weeks at most.” “Can you pay ’em all to-day?” asked the Squire, at his driest. “It may be that I cannot. But every man to whom the bank owes a penny will receive twenty shillings in the pound and interest, within a few weeks—or months.” “And who will be the loser, then, if the bank closes? Who’ll lose, man?” “The bank. No one else.” “But you can’t pay ’em to-day, banker?” “That may be.”