“Hang the man! Where is he?” the Squire muttered, looking about him with a disgusted eye, and wishing himself at home. “Where is the rogue?” Then Thomas, driving slowly and orating to a couple of men who walked beside the carriage, came into view. The Squire roared at him, and Thomas, taken by surprise, whipped up his horses so sharply that he knocked over a hawker’s basket. Still storming at him the old man climbed to his seat and took the reins. He drove round the corner into Bride Hill, and stopped at Purslow’s door. The draper was at the carriage wheel before it stopped. He had the bag in his hand, but he did not at once hand it up. “Excuse me, excuse the liberty, sir,” he said, lowering his voice and glancing at Thomas, “but it’s a large sum, sir, and it’s late. Hadn’t I better keep it till morning?” The Squire snapped at him. “Morning? Rubbish, man! Put it in.” He made room for the bag at his feet. But the draper still hesitated. “It will be dark in ten minutes, sir, and the road—it’s true, no one has been stopped of late, but——” “I’ve never been stopped in my life,” the Squire rejoined. “Put it in, man, and don’t be a fool. Who’s to stop me between here and Garth?” Purslow muttered something about the safe side, but he complied. He handed in the bag, which gave out a clinking sound as it settled itself beside the Squire’s feet. The old man nodded his thanks and started his horses. He drove down Bride Hill, and by the Stalls, where the taps were humming, and the inns were doing a great business. Passing one or two belated carts, he turned to the right and descended to the bridge, the old houses with their galleries and gables looming above him as for three centuries they had loomed above the traveller by the Welsh road. He rumbled over the bridge, the wide river flowing dark below him. Then he trotted sharply up Westwell, passing by the inns that in old days had served those who arrived after the gates were closed. Now he faced the open country and the wet west wind, and he settled himself down in his seat and shook up his horses. As he did so his foot touched the bag, and again the gold gave out a clinking sound. CHAPTER XIII The Squire in his inmost heart had not derived much satisfaction from his visit to the bank. He had left it with an uneasy feeling that the step he had taken had not produced the intended effect. Ovington had accepted the loss of his custom, not indeed with indifference, but with dignity, and in a manner which left the old man little upon which to plume himself. The withdrawal of his custom wore in the retrospect too much of the look of spite, and he came near to regretting it, as he drove along.