tes. But Fisher noticed that the laxity
of the old squire was far less hated than the efficiency of the new
squire. Verner's history seemed to be full of smart bargains and
financial flutters that left other people short of money and temper.
But though he heard a great deal about Verner, there was one thing
that continually eluded him; something that nobody knew, that even
Saltoun had not known. He could not find out how Verner had
originally made his money.

"He must have kept it specially dark," said Horne Fisher to himself.
"It must be something he's really ashamed of. Hang it all! what _is_
a man ashamed of nowadays?"

And as he pondered on the possibilities they grew darker and more
distorted in his mind; he thought vaguely of things remote and
repulsive, strange forms of slavery or sorcery, and then of ugly
things yet more unnatural but nearer home. The figure of Verner
seemed to be blackened and transfigured in his imagination, and to
stand against varied backgrounds and strange skies.

As he strode up a village street, brooding thus, his eyes
encountered a complete contrast in the face of his other rival, the
Reform candidate. Eric Hughes, with his blown blond hair and eager
undergraduate face, was just getting into his motor car and saying a
few final words to his agent, a sturdy, grizzled man named Gryce.
Eric Hughes waved his hand in a friendly fashion; but Gryce eyed him
with some hostility. Eric Hughes was a young man with genuine
political enthusiasms, but he knew that political opponents are
people with whom one may have to dine any day. But Mr. Gryce was a
grim little local Radical, a champion of the chapel, and one of
those happy people whose work is also their hobby. He turned his
back as the motor car drove away, and walked briskly up the sunlit
high street of the little town, whistling, with political papers
sticking out of his pocket.

Fisher looked pensively after the resolute figure for a moment, and
then, as if by an impulse, began to follow it. Through the busy
market place, amid the baskets and barrows of market day, under the
painted wooden sign of the Green Dragon, up a dark side entry, under
an arch, and through a tangle of crooked cobbled streets the two
threaded their way, the square, strutting figure in front and the
lean, lounging figure behind him, like his shadow in the sunshine.
At length they came to a brown brick house with a brass plate, on
which was Mr. Gryce's name, and tha