"Yes, sir, it _can_ be done," agreed the elder man. "Thank you. Which is the leading bank here?" Walker, senior, indicated a building directly opposite. "I'll have a word with the manager," said Mr. Armathwaite. "If I'm here in half an hour, will you have a carriage waiting?" "A dog-cart, sir. My own. My son will attend to you." "Excellent. Evidently, your firm understands business." And Mr. Armathwaite went out. The Walkers watched as he crossed the road, and entered the bank. Their side of the street being higher than the other, they could see, above the frosted lower half of the bank's window, that he approached the counter, and was ushered into the manager's private room. "What d'ye make of it, dad?" inquired the "nut," forgetting his importance in the absorbing interest of the moment. "Dad" tickled his bald scalp with the handle of the pen. "Tell you what," he said solemnly. "Some houses have an attraction for queer folk. Whoever built the Grange where it is must have been daft. The people who lived there when I was a young man were a bit touched. Mr. Garth was mad, we know, an' Mrs. Wilkins was the silliest woman I ever met. Now comes this one." "_He_ looks all right." "You never can tell. At any rate, we'll take his money, and welcome. I asked sixty, but wouldn't have sneezed at forty. Neither would Holloway & Dobb; they've some costs to collect since the Wilkins' affair. Go and get the trap ready. And mind you, Jim, no hanky-panky." The youthful Walker winked. "You leave that to me," he said. "What about the fee--will he stand a guinea?" "You might try it, at any rate." At the appointed time, half-past eleven o'clock, Mr. Armathwaite came, carrying a large parcel wrapped in brown paper. He cast an appreciative eye at a wiry cob, put the parcel in the back of the waiting dog-cart, and climbed to the seat beside the younger Walker, now attired _de rigueur_ for the country. "Will you kindly call at the railway station?" he said. The request was unexpected, but the driver nodded, and showed some skill in turning through the congeries of vehicles which crowded the street. At the station, the bag and other small articles were withdrawn from the parcels office, and deposited beside the package in brown paper. James Walker was mystified, but said nothing. Returning through the main street, he answered a few questions concerning local matters, and, once in the open country, grew voluble under the influence of a first-rate Havana proffered by his companion. Men of his type often estimate their fellows by a tobacco standard, and Walker privately appraised the cigar as "worth a bob, at the lowest figure." From that instant, Mr. Robert Armathwaite and Mr. James Walker took up their relative positions without demur on the part of either.