"the question is what isn't it? These be rum times, they be,
they fare to puzzle a man, they du."

"Yes," said Mr. Quest, balancing a quill pen on his finger, "the times
are bad enough."

Then came a pause.

"Dash it all, sir," went on George presently, "I may as well get it
out; I hev come to speak to you about the Squire's business."

"Yes," said Mr. Quest.

"Well, sir," went on George, "I'm told that these dratted mortgages
hev passed into your hands, and that you hev called in the money."

"Yes, that is correct," said Mr. Quest again.

"Well, sir, the fact is that the Squire can't git the money. It can't
be had nohow. Nobody won't take the land as security. It might be so
much water for all folk to look at it."

"Quite so. Land is in very bad odour as security now."

"And that being so, sir, what is to be done?"

Mr. Quest shrugged his shoulders. "I do not know. If the money is not
forthcoming, of course I shall, however unwillingly, be forced to take
my legal remedy."

"Meaning, sir----"

"Meaning that I shall bring an action for foreclosure and do what I
can with the lands."

George's face darkened.

"And that reads, sir, that the Squire and Miss Ida will be turned out
of Honham, where they and theirs hev been for centuries, and that you
will turn in?"

"Well, that is what it comes to, George. I am sincerely sorry to press
the Squire, but it's a matter of thirty thousand pounds, and I am not
in a position to throw away thirty thousand pounds."

"Sir," said George, rising in indignation, "I don't rightly know how
you came by them there mortgages. There is some things as laryers know
and honest men don't know, and that's one on them. But it seems that
you've got 'em and are a-going to use 'em--and that being so, Mr.
Quest, I have summut to say to you--and that is that no good won't
come to you from this here move."

"What do you mean by that, George?" said the lawyer sharply.

"Niver you mind what I mean, sir. I means what I says. I means that
sometimes people has things in their lives snugged away where nobody
can't see 'em, things as quiet as though they was dead and buried, and
that ain't dead nor buried neither, things so much alive that they
fare as though they were fit to kick the lid off their coffin. That's
what I means, sir, and I means that when folk set to work to do a hard
and wicked thing those dead things sometimes gits up and walks where
they is least wanting; and mayhap if you