“Pooh, pooh, sir,” Clement said; yet he did but disguise deep feeling under a mask of lightness. “You don’t do yourself justice. And for the matter of that, if we have to thank any one it is Rodd, here.” He clapped the cashier on the shoulder with an intimacy that brought a spark to Rodd’s eyes. “He’s not only stuck to it like a man, but if he had not paid in his four hundred and fifty——” “No, no, sir, we weren’t drawn down to that—quite.” “We were mighty near it, my lad. And easily might have been.” “Yes,” said the banker; “we shall not forget it, Rodd. But, after all,” with a faint smile, “it’s Bourdillon we have to thank.” And he explained the motives which, on the surface at least, had moved the Squire to intervene. “If I had not taken Bourdillon in when I did——” “Just so,” Clement assented drily. “And if Bourdillon had not——” “Umph! Yes. But—where is he? Do you know?” “I don’t. He may be at his rooms, or he may have ridden out to his mother’s. I’ll look round presently, and if he is not in town I’ll go out and tell him the news.” “You didn’t quarrel?” Clement shrugged his shoulders. “Not more than we can make up,” he said lightly, “if it is to his interest.” The banker moved uneasily in his chair. “What is to be done about him?” he asked. “I think, sir, that that’s for the Squire. Let us leave it to him. It’s his business. And now—come! Has any one told Betty!” The banker rose, conscience-stricken. “No, poor girl, and she must be anxious. I quite forgot,” he said. “Unless Rodd has,” Clement replied, with a queer look at his father. For Rodd had vanished while they were talking of Arthur, whom it was noteworthy that neither of them now called by his Christian name. “Well go and tell her,” said Ovington, reverting to his everyday tone. And he turned briskly to the door which led into the house. He opened it, and was crossing the hall, followed by Clement, who was anxious to relieve his sister’s mind, when both came to a sudden stand. The banker uttered an exclamation of astonishment—and so did Betty. For Rodd, he melted with extraordinary rapidity through a convenient door, while Clement, the only one of the four who was not taken completely by surprise, laughed softly. “Betty!” her father cried sternly. “What is the meaning of this?” “Well, I thought—you would know,” said Betty, blushing furiously. “I think it’s pretty plain.” Then, throwing her arms round her father’s neck, “Oh, father, I’m so glad, I’m so glad, I’m so glad!” “But that’s an odd way of showing it, my dear.” “Oh, he quite understands. In fact”—still hiding her face—“we’ve come to an understanding, father. And we want you”—half laughing and half crying—“to witness it.” “I’m afraid I did witness it,” gravely. “But you’re not going to be angry? Not to-day? Not to-day, father.” And in a small voice, “He stood by you. You know how he stood by you. And you said you’d never forget it.” “But I didn’t say that I should give him my daughter.”