t hunting all day. When my wife had George, it
made me as nervous as a cat!"

The Squire stopped, then hurriedly added:

"But you're so used to it."

Mr. Barter frowned.

"I was passing Coldingham to-day," he said. "I saw Winlow. He asked
after you."

"Ah! Winlow! His wife's a very nice woman. They've only the one child, I
think?"

The Rector winced.

"Winlow tells me," he said abruptly, "that George has sold his horse."

The Squire's face changed. He glanced suspiciously at Mr. Barter, but
the Rector was looking at his glass.

"Sold his horse! What's the meaning of that? He told you why, I
suppose?"

The Rector drank off his wine.

"I never ask for reasons," he said, "where racing-men are concerned.
It's my belief they know no more what they're about than so many dumb
animals."

"Ah! racing-men!" said Mr. Pendyce. "But George doesn't bet."

A gleam of humour shot into the Rector's eyes. He pressed his lips
together.

The Squire rose.

"Come now, Barter!" he said.

The Rector blushed. He hated tale-bearing--that is, of course, in the
case of a man; the case of a woman was different--and just as, when he
went to Bellew he had been careful not to give George away, so now he
was still more on his guard.

"No, no, Pendyce."

The Squire began to pace the room, and Mr. Barter felt something stir
against his foot; the spaniel John emerging at the end, just where the
moonlight shone, a symbol of all that was subservient to the Squire,
gazed up at his master with tragic eyes. 'Here, again,' they seemed to
say, 'is something to disturb me!'

The Squire broke the silence.

"I've always counted on you, Barter; I count on you as I would on my own
brother. Come, now, what's this about George?"

'After all,' thought the Rector, 'it's his father!'--"I know nothing but
what they say," he blurted forth; "they talk of his having lost a lot of
money. I dare say it's all nonsense. I never set much store by rumour.
And if he's sold the horse, well, so much the better. He won't be
tempted to gamble again."

But Horace Pendyce made no answer. A single thought possessed his
bewildered, angry mind:

'My son a gambler! Worsted Skeynes in the hands of a gambler!'

The Rector rose.

"It's all rumour. You shouldn't pay any attention. I should hardly think
he's been such a fool. I only know that I must get back to my wife.
Good-night."

And, nodding but confused, Mr. Barter went away through the French
window by