“Well,” said Harold in a doubtful voice, “there may be something in it.  May I take a copy of that writing?”

“Certainly,” said Ida laughing, “and if you find the treasure we will go shares.  Stop, I will dictate it to you.”

Just as this process was finished and Harold was shutting up his pocket-book, in which he put the fair copy he had executed on a half-sheet of note paper, the old Squire came into the room again.  Looking at his face, his visitor saw that the interview with “George” had evidently been anything but satisfactory, for it bore an expression of exceedingly low spirits.

“Well, father, what is the matter?” asked his daughter.

“Oh, nothing, my dear, nothing,” he answered in melancholy tones.  “George has been here, that is all.”

“Yes, and I wish he would keep away,” she said with a little stamp of her foot, “for he always brings some bad news or other.”

“It is the times, my dear, it is the times; it isn’t George.  I really don’t know what has come to the country.”

“What is it?” said Ida with a deepening expression of anxiety.  “Something wrong with the Moat Farm?”

“Yes; Janter has thrown it up after all, and I am sure I don’t know where I am to find another tenant.”

“You see what the pleasures of landed property are, Colonel Quaritch,” said Ida, turning towards him with a smile which did not convey a great sense of cheerfulness.

“Yes,” he said, “I know.  Thank goodness I have only the ten acres that my dear old aunt left to me.  And now,” he added, “I think that I must be saying good-night.  It is half-past ten, and I expect that old Mrs. Jobson is sitting up for me.”

Ida looked up in remonstrance, and opened her lips to speak, and then for some reason that did not appear changed her mind and held out her hand.  “Good-night, Colonel Quaritch,” she said; “I am so pleased that we are going to have you as a neighbour.  By-the-way, I have a few people coming to play lawn tennis here to-morrow afternoon, will you come too?”

“What,” broke in the Squire, in a voice of irritation, “more lawn tennis parties, Ida?  I think that you might have spared me for once—­ with all this business on my hands, too.”

“Nonsense, father,” said his daughter, with some acerbity.  “How can a few people playing lawn tennis hurt you?  It is quite useless to shut oneself up and be miserable over things that one cannot help.”

The old gentleman collapsed with an air of pious resignation, and meekly asked who was coming.

“Oh, nobody in particular.  Mr. and Mrs. Jeffries—­Mr. Jeffries is our clergyman, you know, Colonel Quaritch—­and Dr. Bass and the two Miss Smiths, one of whom he is supposed to be in love with, and Mr. and Mrs. Quest, and Mr. Edward Cossey, and a few more.”

“Mr. Edward Cossey,” said the Squire, jumping off his chair; “really, Ida, you know I detest that young man, that I consider him an abominable young man; and I think you might have shown more consideration to me than to have asked him here.”