“And I’ll answer, ecod, by producing this here letter,” blurted Thornby, bringing from his pocket the document we have already seen in the hands of Jeremiah Filson, and holding it high, with the signed part in Foxwell’s view, “which you wrote in the sponging-house to Sir John Thisleford, and which anybody who knows your hand can swear to—as your face owns to it now. ‘If you don’t help me out of this, I will confess all, and let the world know who got Lord Hilby’s money that night,’ says you, in black and white. ‘_Confess_ all,’ d’ye see? Signed ‘R. Foxwell.’ Your wit failed you that time, I’m a-thinking. What ’ud the county say if I exhibited this here bit o’ writing? Even your town friends, as I hear be a-visiting you, would find this more nor they could swallow, I dare say.” “Let me see the letter—closer,” said Foxwell, in a hushed and quaking voice. “I value it too much as a bit o’ your beloved handwritin’.” The Squire repocketed it carefully, with a grim chuckle at his own humour. “As to how I shall use it, that depends partly on how you use me. But I don’t promise anything. I hold it over your head, neighbour Foxwell,—like the sword of Dionassius in the story-book—over your head, ecod! Ha! Good day, Foxwell. Go back to your pleasures—I’ll show myself out.” Foxwell made an effort to regain his self-possession. “’Tis a forgery—I defy you—this is a trumped-up tale—” “We shall see. You’d go near killing to get the letter from me, I’ll warrant.” With this parting shot, his heavy features stretched in a leer of triumph, the Squire stalked from the room, leaving Foxwell—silent and shaken—to his thoughts. The victorious Squire had to pass through the wide entrance-hall to reach the forecourt, where his man Bartholomew awaited with the horses. He stopped in the hall, which was for the moment deserted, in order to refold the precious letter and place it more securely. As he pocketed it once more, he turned his glance toward the closed door of the drawing-room, soliloquizing after this fashion, “I’ll make him play the whipped cur afore I’ve done with him. He shall come when I call, so he shall,—and go when I bid, and speak when I allow, and hold his tongue when I command. You fine beau of the town, you’ll make a jest of us country gentlemen, will you?—you’ll teach us manners, will you?—Eh, who’s this?” The hall was panelled in oak, decorated with heads of stags and foxes, provided with a large fireplace, and furnished with chairs and settles. At one side, the stairway began which led to the upper floors, and the Squire’s ejaculation was caused by the appearance of somebody on those stairs—a young lady, rather slight, but well-shaped, with a very pretty face distinguished by a somewhat rebellious expression; and with a pair of eyes that set the Squire agape with the wonder of a new sensation, as they rested for an instant full upon him.