—­’I ought to have gone to him and said, “Look here; Rogers is a friend of mine, and known to me from childhood.  There’s honesty in him, but ’tis like streaks in bacon; and for some reason or another he chooses that all his dealin’s with me shall keep to the honest streak.  If you ask me how I know this, ’twouldn’t be easy to answer:  I do know it, and I trust him as I’d trust myself, a’most.  But Rogers isn’t a man for everyone’s money, and there’s many as don’t scruple to call him a knave.  He hasn’t known you from a child, and you haven’t known him.  You’ll be safe in putting it that what he’s done honest for you he’s done as my friend—­“’

Here Cai was seized by a new apprehension.

—­’Ay, and—­the devil take it!—­I’ve let Rogers see, lately, that ’Bias and I had dissolved partnership and burnt the papers!  ’Twouldn’t take more than that to persuade Rogers he was quit of the old obligation towards ’Bias—­himself in difficulties too, and ’Bias’s money under his hand.’

—­’Good Lord! . . .  Suppose the fellow even allowed to himself that he was helping me!  If Mrs Bosenna—?’

At this point Cai came to a full stop, appalled.  Be it repeated that neither he nor ’Bias had wooed Mrs Bosenna for her wealth; nor until now had her wealth presented itself to either save in comfortable after-thought.

Cai sat very still for a while.  Then drawing quickly at his pipe, he found that it was smoked out.  He arose to tap the bowl upon the bars of the grate.  But they were masked and muffled by Mrs Bowldler’s screen of shavings, and he wandered to the open window to knock out the ashes upon the slate ledge.  Returning to the fireplace, he reached out a hand for the tobacco-jar, but arrested it, and laying his pipe down on the table, did something clean contrary to habit.

He went to the cupboard, fetched out decanter, water-jug, and glass, and mixed himself a stiff brandy-and-water.

“Hullo!” said a voice outside the window.  “I didn’ know as you indulged between meals.”

It was Mr Philp, staring in.

“I heard you tappin’ on the window-ledge, and I thought maybe you had caught sight o’ me,” suggested Mr Philp.

“But I hadn’t,” said Cai, somewhat confused.

“I said to myself, ‘He’s beckonin’ me in for a chat’:  and no wonder if ‘tis true what they’re tellin’ down in the town.”

“Well, I wasn’t,” said Cai, gulping his brandy-and-water hardily.  “But what are they tellin’?”

“There’s some,” mused Mr Philp, “as don’t approve of solitary drinkin’.  Narrow-minded bodies I call ’em.  When a man is in luck’s way, who’s to blame his fillin’ a glass to it—­though some o’ course prefers to call in their naybours; an’ that’s a good old custom too.”

Cai ignored the hint.  “What are they tellin’ down in the town?”

“All sorts o’ things, from mirth to mournin’.  They say, for instance, as you and the Widow have fixed it all up to be married this side o’ Jubilee.”