The Squire could remember the place when his father and his like had had their town houses in it, and in winter had removed their families to it; when the weekly Assemblies at the Lion had been gay with cards and dancing, and in the cockpit behind the inn mains of cocks had been fought with the Gentlemen of Cheshire or Staffordshire; when fine ladies with long canes and red-heeled shoes had promenaded under the lime trees beside the river, and the town in its season had been a little Bath. Those days, and the lumbering coaches-and-six which had brought in the families, were gone, and the staple of the town, its trade in woollens and Welsh flannels, was also on the decline. But it was still a thriving place, and if the county people no longer filled it in winter, their stately houses survived, and older houses than theirs, of brick and timber, quaint and gabled, that made the streets a joy to antiquaries. The Squire passed by many a one, with beetling roof and two-storied porch, as he drove up Maerdol. His first and most pressing business was at the bank, and he would not be himself until he had got it off his mind. He would show that d—d Ovington what he thought of him! He would teach him a lesson—luring away that young man and pouching his money. Ay, begad he would! CHAPTER XII But as the Squire turned to the left by the Stalls he saw his lawyer, Frederick Welsh—rather above most lawyers were the Welsh brothers, by-blows it was said of a great house—and Welsh stopped him. “You’re wanted at the Bench, Squire, if you please,” he said. “His lordship is there, and they are waiting for you.” “But it’s not time—by an hour, man!” “No, but it’s a special case, and will take all day, I’m afraid. His lordship says that he won’t begin until you come. It’s that case of——” the lawyer whispered a few words. “And the Chief Constable does not quite trust—you understand? He’s anxious that you should be there.” The Squire resigned himself, “Very well, I’ll come,” he said.