seem to have a somewhat exalted
opinion of my morals," he observed. "Well, since you are determined to
brave the risk of being let down, I needn't quibble at it any further. I
accept."

Babbacombe's attitude changed in an instant. He held out his hand.

"You won't let me down, West," he said, with confidence.

West hesitated for a single instant, then took the proffered hand into a
grip of iron. His blue eyes looked hard and straight into Babbacombe's
face.

"If I let you down," he said grimly, "I shall be underneath."

IV

It was not till the middle of December that the new bailiff moved into
his own quarters, but he had assumed his duties some weeks before that
time, and Babbacombe was well satisfied with him. The man's business
instincts were unusually keen. He had, moreover, a wonderful eye for
details, and very little escaped him. It soon came home to Babbacombe
that the management of his estate was in capable hands, and he
congratulated himself upon having struck ore where he had least expected
to find it. He supervised the whole of West's work for a time, but he
soon suffered this vigilance to relax, for the man's shrewdness far
surpassed his own. He settled to the work with a certain grim relish,
and it was a perpetual marvel to Babbacombe that he mastered it from the
outset with such facility.

Keepers and labourers eyed him askance for awhile, but West's
imperturbability took effect before very long. They accepted him without
enthusiasm, but also without rancour, as a man who could hold his own.

As soon as he was installed in the bailiff's house, Babbacombe left him
to his own devices, and departed upon a round of visits. He proposed to
entertain a house-party himself towards the end of January. He informed
West of this before departing, and was slightly puzzled by a certain
humourous gleam that shone in the steely eyes at the news. The matter
went speedily from his mind. It was not till long after that he recalled
it.

West wrote to him regularly during his absence, curt, businesslike
epistles, which always terminated on a grim note of irony: "Your
faithful steward, N. V. West." He never varied this joke, and Babbacombe
usually noted it with a faint frown. The fellow was not a bad sort, he
was convinced, but he would always be more or less of an enigma to him.

He returned to Farringdean in the middle of January with one of his
married sisters, whom he had secured to act as hostess to hi