y and sell land."

"No; they don't. They buy a bit now and then when they're screws, and
they sell a bit now and then when the eating and drinking has gone
too fast. But as for capital and investment, they know nothing about
it. After all, they ain't getting above two-and-a-half per cent. for
their money. We all know what that must come to."

Mr. Cockey had been so mild before the pint of sherry and the glass
of toddy, that Mr. Gilmore was somewhat dismayed by the change. Mr.
Cockey, however, in his altered aspect seemed to be so much the less
gracious, that Gilmore left him and strolled out into the town. He
climbed up the hill and walked round the church and looked up at the
windows of Miss Marrable's house, of which he had learned the site;
but he had no adventure, saw nothing that interested him, and at
half-past nine took himself wearily to bed.

That same day Captain Marrable had run down from London to Loring
laden with terrible news. The money on which he had counted was all
gone! "What do you mean?" said his uncle; "have the lawyers been
deceiving you all through?"

"What is it to me?" said the ruined man. "It is all gone. They have
satisfied me that nothing more can be done." Parson John whistled
with a long-drawn note of wonder. "The people they were dealing with
would be willing enough to give up the money, but it's all gone. It's
spent, and there's no trace of it."

"Poor fellow!"

[Illustration: Parson John and Walter Marrable.]

"I've seen my father, uncle John."

"And what passed?"

"I told him that he was a scoundrel, and then I left him. I didn't
strike him."

"I should hope not that, Walter."

"I kept my hands off him; but when a man has ruined you as he has
me, it doesn't much matter who he is. Your father and any other man
are much the same to you then. He was worn, and old, and pale, or I
should have felled him to the ground."

"And what will you do now?"

"Just go to that hell upon earth on the other side of the globe.
There's nothing else to be done. I've applied for extension of leave,
and told them why."

Nothing more was said that night between the uncle and nephew, and
no word had been spoken about Mary Lowther. On the next morning the
breakfast at the parsonage passed by in silence. Parson John had been
thinking a good deal of Mary, but had resolved that it was best that
he should hold his tongue for the present. From the moment in which
he had first heard of the enga