As he climbed out of the marsh on to the main road, he met Brack in the Flanders. A church-bell was ringing somewhere on the hill-side, and on the empty seat at Brack’s left lay a Prayer-book. When he saw the well-known figure, he pulled up with a jerk that ground fierce complaint from his tyres. Lanty looked at the Prayer-book in mild surprise, and up to its owner. The angry colour flew into Brack’s face, but he did not put out a hand to the strange object. Let the d----d agent look if he liked! When the colour faded, Lanty saw that he was thinner, less superior, less exaggerated, less--well, less Brack. The superciliousness that had marked him at the rent-audit was gone, the splendid self-possession changed to mere nervous defiance. His eyes were restless, frightened. He looked as though, at any moment, he might bolt like a startled deer. Lanty stared at him curiously, with more contempt in the curiosity than he knew. It was impossible to take Brack seriously; the man must have dropped a screw or two somewhere “across the dub.” The Prayer-book alone, sitting blandly on the seat of the car, stamped the situation. Stung by his expression, Brack pulled himself together with an effort, drawing out his cigarette-case with shaking hands. “Been looking out for you!” he began, coughing to steady his voice. “Just come from calling at Watters.” “Indeed?” The agent raised his eyebrows. Was Brack aspiring to that particular orbit? The younger man flushed angrily once more. “Westmorland Holliday blood need touch its hat to no manufacturer’s cash, Mr. Lancaster!” “Granted!” Lanty said heartily--“though it lifts it to honest success!” His manner changed, however. The little outburst pleased him, coming as it did, not from vanity, but from heritage, showing the man to be really one of the old stock. He dropped into the coaxing tone he kept for the long-time tenants. “Come, Brack! What’s worrying you? Not the same old tale, man, surely? You’re looking as nervous as a cat, and more fit to be in hospital than driving a car.” But Brack ignored the question, struggling with his obstinate cigarette, and cursing under his breath (despite the Prayer-book) as the wind took the flame. “I went to Watters,” he continued, speaking very carefully, “to see about this hotpot supper. I went to tell Mr. Shaw I reckoned he’d better put it off.” “Put it off?” Lanty’s eyebrows went up again. “What on earth for? Measles or something broken out at the ‘Duke’? He must have thought you had a pretty fair cheek! What did he say?”