“Nonsense, father!”

“Very likely.  Frank Symonds, I was saying, believes, and so does his father, that Hornby would rejoice at an opportunity of returning with interest the smart score I marked upon his back three-and-twenty years ago”

“It was a thoughtless, cruel act, Henry,” rejoined his wife, “and the less said of it the better.  I hope the fright we have had will induce you to practice a better economy than heretofore; so that, instead of allowing two years’ interest to accumulate upon us, we may gradually reduce the mortgage.”

“That we will, dear, depend upon it.  We shall be pushed a little at first:  Kirkshaw, who lent me the two hundred and fifty, can only spare it for a month; but no doubt the bank will do a bill for part of it by that time.  But sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.  Here is the money for Hornby at all events:  and here at last comes the shrivelled atomy; I hear his horse.  Fanny, light the candles.”

If Mrs. Burton had consciously or unconsciously entertained the self-flattering notion that the still unwedded bachelor who had unsuccessfully wooed her nearly a quarter of a century before, still retained a feeling of regretful tenderness for her, she must have been grievously surprised by the cold, unrecognizing glance which Hornby threw on her as he entered, and curtly replied to her civil greeting. That was not the image stamped upon his heart and brain!  But when her eldest daughter approached the lights to place paper and pens upon the table, the flashing glance and white quivering lip of the grave visitor revealed the tempest of emotion which for an instant shook him.  He quickly suppressed all outward manifestation of feeling, and in a dry, business tone, demanded if Mr. Burton was ready to pay the interest of the mortgage.

“Yes, thank God,” replied Burton, “I am:  here is the money in notes of the Governor and Company of the Bank of England.  Count them!”

Hornby bent down over the notes, shading his face with his hand, as if more accurately to examine them, and the glance of baffled rage which swept across his features was not observed.

“They are quite right,” he said, rising from his chair; “and here is your receipt.”

“Very Good!  And now, Hornby, let us have a glass of wine together for the sake of old times.  Well, well; you need not look so fierce about it.  Let bygones be bygones, I say.  Oh, if you will go—­go in God’s name!  Good-night!”

“Good-night!”

“Baffled—­foiled!” muttered Hornby as he rode homeward.  “Where could he get the money?  Borrowed it, doubtless, but of whom?  Well, patience—­patience!  I shall grip thee yet, Henry Burton!” And the possessed man turned round in his saddle, and shook his clenched hand in the direction of the house he had quitted.  He then steadily pursued his way, and soon regained his hermitage.