“How much will clear you? To pay ’em all down on the nail,” truculently, “and tell ’em all to go and be hanged? Eh? How much do you need for that?” Ovington opened his mouth, but for a moment, overpowered by the emotions that set his temples throbbing, he could not speak. He stared at the gaunt, stooping figure in the chair—the stooping figure in the shabby old riding-coat with the huge plated buttons that had weathered a dozen winters—and though hope sprang up in him, he doubted. The man might be playing with him. Or, he might not mean what he seemed to mean. There might be some mistake. At last, “Five thousand pounds would pull us through,” he said in a voice that sounded strange to himself, “as it turns out.” “You’d better take ten,” the Squire answered. “There,” fumbling in his inner pocket and extracting with effort a thick packet, “count five out of that. And there’s five in gold that my man will bring in. D’you give me a note for ten thousand at six months—five per cent.” “Mr. Griffin——” “There, no words!” testily. “It ain’t for you I’m doing it, man. Understand that! It ain’t for you. It’s for my name and my nephew, little as he deserves it! Count it out, count it out, and give me back the balance, and let’s be done with it.” Ovington hesitated, his heart full, his hands trembling. He was not himself. He looked at Woosenham. “Perhaps, Sir Charles,” he said unsteadily, “will be good enough to check the amount with me!” “Pshaw, man, if I didn’t think you honest I shouldn’t be here, whether or no. No such fool! I satisfied myself of that, you may be sure, before I came in. Count it, yourself. And there! Bid ’em bring in the gold.” The banker rang the bell and gave the order. He counted the notes, and by the time he had finished, the bags had been brought in. “You’ll ha’ to take that uncounted,” the Squire said, as he heard them set down on the floor, “as I took it myself.” “My son will have seen to that,” Ovington replied. He was a little more like himself now. He sat down and wrote out the note, though his hand shook. “Ay,” the Squire agreed, “I’m thinking he will have.” And turning his head towards Woosenham, “He’s a rum chap, that,” he continued, with a chuckle and speaking as if the banker were not present. “He gave me a talking-to—me! D’you know that he got to London in sixteen hours, in the night-time?” “Did he, by Jove! Our friend at Halston could hardly have beaten that.” “And nothing staged either! Railroads!” scornfully. “D’you think there’s any need o’ railroads when a man can do that? Or that any railroad that’s ever made will beat that? Sixteen hours, by George, a hundred and fifty-one miles in the night-time!”