"Of course not," said Rhoda, absently; and soon after Miss Pavey took her leave, Rhoda going with her to the door, and on re-crossing the hall noticing a card lying upon the serpentine marble table, against whose dark, ruddy surface it stood out clear and white. At another time it would not have attracted her attention, but now, as if moved by some impulse beyond her control, she went up close and read upon it the name,-- "Geoffrey Trethick." Nothing more--no "Mr" and no address. CHAPTER FOUR. THE WRONG PLACE FOR THE RIGHT MAN. "Well, Chynoweth," said Mr Penwynn, entering his office which was used as a branch of the Felsport bank, "any thing fresh?" Mr Chynoweth, the banker's manager, generally known as "The Jack of Clubs," was a little man, dark, and spare, and dry. He was probably fifty, but well preserved, having apparently been bound by nature in vellum, which gave him quite, a legal look, while it made him thick-skinned enough to bear a good many unpleasantries in his daily life. He was rather bald, but very shiny on the crown. His face was cleanly shaved, and he had a habit of bending down his head, and gazing through his shaggy eyebrows at whosoever spoke, and also when he took up his parable himself. Mr Chynoweth had been busy inside his desk when he heard his principal's step, and there was plenty of room beneath the broad mahogany flap for him to do what he pleased unseen. What Mr Chynoweth pleased that morning was to play over again a hand of whist, as near as he could remember--one that had been played at Dr Rumsey's house the night before, when one of the guests, Mr Paul, had, to use his own words, "picked the game out of the fire," Mr Chynoweth being, in consequence, five shillings out of pocket. He kept a pack of cards and a whist guide in this desk, and it was frequently his habit to shuffle, cut, and deal four hands, spread them below the flap, and play them out by himself for practice, the consequence being that he was an adversary to be feared, a partner to be desired, at the snug little parties held at two or three houses in Carnac. On this particular morning he had just arrived at the point where he felt that he had gone astray, when Mr Penwynn's step was heard, the mahogany flap was closed, and "The Jack of Clubs" was ready for business. "Fresh? Well, no. Permewan's time's up, and he wants more. Will you give it?" "No: he has made no effort to pay his interest. Tell Tregenna to foreclose and sell." Mr Chynoweth rapidly made an entry upon an ordinary school slate on one side, and then crossed off an entry upon the other, refreshing his memory from it at the same time. "Dr Rumsey wants an advance of a hundred pounds," he said next, gazing through his shaggy eyebrows. "Hang Dr Rumsey! He's always wanting an advance. What does he say?" "Pilchard fishery such a failure. Tin so low that he can't get in his accounts." "Humph! What security does he offer?" "Note of hand."