Georgiana, convinced that fair means would not serve, feigned a sudden dizziness, which threw the Squire into such embarrassment, as he knew nothing of what to do for a lady in a faint, that he was very glad to leave the field, though he manfully remained until she declared she was better and would entirely recover if left alone. As soon as she saw him ride out of the courtyard, she went back to Everell in the garden. “How long you stayed!” said he. “Nay, if you knew this gentleman!—so stupid, and repeating himself a hundred times:—and after all, ’twas nothing I could be of use in.” Alluded to in this careless manner, the personality of Thornby awakened no curiosity in Everell’s mind. He vaguely remembered the name as that of a landowner in the neighbourhood, whom the innkeeper and John Tarby had mentioned. How glad Mr. Foxwell would have been could he have felt a like indifference with regard to the Squire! The reader is aware of their encounter as Thornby was riding down the slope that afternoon. As soon after that as Foxwell found himself alone with Rashleigh, his vexation broke out in words. “Damn that Thornby! Damn, damn, damn him!” “The gentleman you were accustomed to take down in company, didn’t you tell us?” said Rashleigh with marked innocence. “Ay, George, laugh at me: I deserve it, I own. But something has happened since I told you that. No doubt you remember, the fellow came to see me the other day. Do you know what he showed me then?” “Not I—unless it was a list of men he had killed.” “Alas, nothing of that sort. To make a long story short, years ago in London, when I was in bad straits, I wrote a foolish letter—imbecile that I was!—wrote it in the madness of anger, poverty, imprisonment,—in the recklessness of drink.” “We make such blunders now and then, certainly,” was Rashleigh’s sage comment. “I soon enough realized my blunder. The recipient of the letter—he is dead now—told me he had burnt it. It contained things I should be sorry to have everybody see.” “But if it was burnt?” “It wasn’t: there was trickery somewhere. And the letter is now in the possession of this Thornby. ’Tis the real letter—I recognized it. He will show it to the world if I provoke him. Till I can get it from him—and heaven knows how that is to be done: he is a cunning fellow, and on the _qui vive_—well, now you understand my meekness. He really has me at his mercy—hardly less than I have the Jacobite yonder at mine.” From the window the gentlemen could see Everell and Georgiana strolling within the verge of the park. As Foxwell evinced no mind to say more about Thornby or the letter, but rather seemed to dismiss them with a sigh of disgust, Rashleigh took the cue for a change of subject. “Will you really hand over the Jacobite, after all, Bob?” “I haven’t thought much of that matter,” replied Foxwell. “I frankly didn’t expect him to choose as he did.” “His time is coming to an end,” said Rashleigh. “You will soon have to decide.”