but that stupid owl, George, said it was all nothing, and that he would continue at fifteen shillings when the time came.  And now to-night he comes to me with a face as long as a yard-arm, and says that Janter won’t keep it at any price, and that he does not know where he is to find another tenant, not he.  It’s quite heartbreaking, that’s what it is.  Three hundred acres of good, sound, food-producing land, and no tenant for it at fifteen shillings an acre.  What am I to do?”

“Can’t you take it in hand and farm it yourself?” asked Harold.

“How can I take it in hand?  I have one farm of a hundred and fifty acres in hand as it is.  Do you know what it would cost to take over that farm?” and he stopped in his walk and struck his stick into the ground.  “Ten pounds an acre, every farthing of it—­and say a thousand for the covenants—­about four thousand pounds in all.  Now where am I to get four thousand pounds to speculate with in that way, for it is a speculation, and one which I am too old to look after myself, even if I had the knowledge.  Well, there you are, and now I’ll say good-night, sir.  It’s getting chilly, and I have felt my chest for the last year or two.  By-the-way, I suppose I shall see you to-morrow at this tennis party of Ida’s.  It’s all very well for Ida to go in for her tennis parties, but how can I think of such things with all this worry on my hands?  Well, good-night, Colonel Quaritch, good-night,” and he turned and walked away through the moonlight.

Harold Quaritch watched him go and then stalked off home, reflecting, not without sadness, upon the drama which was opening up before him, that most common of dramas in these days of depression,—­the break up of an ancient family through causes beyond control.  It required far less acumen and knowledge of the world than he possessed to make it clear to him that the old race of de la Molle was doomed.  This story of farms thrown up and money not forthcoming pointed its own moral, and a sad one it was.  Even Ida’s almost childish excitement about the legend of the buried treasure showed him how present to her mind must be the necessity of money; and he fell to thinking how pleasant it would be to be able to play the part of the Fairy Prince and step in with untold wealth between her and the ruin which threatened her family.  How well that grand-looking open-minded Squire would become a great station, fitted as he was by nature, descent, and tradition, to play the solid part of an English country gentleman of the good old-fashioned kind.  It was pitiful to think of a man of his stamp forced by the vile exigencies of a narrow purse to scheme and fight against the advancing tide of destitution.  And Ida, too,—­Ida, who was equipped with every attribute that can make wealth and power what they should be—­a frame to show off her worth and state.  Well, it was the way of the world, and he could not mend it; but it was with a bitter sense of the unfitness of things that with some little difficulty—­for he was not yet fully accustomed to its twists and turns—­he found his way past the swelling heap of Dead Man’s Mount and round the house to his own front door.