“I mean you are going to tell the truth as you have just told it,” replied Fisher.  “You are going to placard this town with the wickedness done to old Wilkins.  You are going to fill the newspapers with the infamous story of Mrs. Biddle.  You are going to denounce Verner from a public platform, naming him for what he did and naming the poacher he did it to.  And you’re going to find out by what trade this man made the money with which he bought the estate; and when you know the truth, as I said before, of course you are going to tell it.  Upon those terms I come under the old flag, as you call it, and haul down my little pennon.”

The agent was eying him with a curious expression, surly but not entirely unsympathetic.  “Well,” he said, slowly, “you have to do these things in a regular way, you know, or people don’t understand.  I’ve had a lot of experience, and I’m afraid what you say wouldn’t do.  People understand slanging squires in a general way, but those personalities aren’t considered fair play.  Looks like hitting below the belt.”

“Old Wilkins hasn’t got a belt, I suppose,” replied Horne Fisher.  “Verner can hit him anyhow, and nobody must say a word.  It’s evidently very important to have a belt.  But apparently you have to be rather high up in society to have one.  Possibly,” he added, thoughtfully—­“possibly the explanation of the phrase ’a belted earl,’ the meaning of which has always escaped me.”

“I mean those personalities won’t do,” returned Gryce, frowning at the table.

“And Mother Biddle and Long Adam, the poacher, are not personalities,” said Fisher, “and suppose we mustn’t ask how Verner made all the money that enabled him to become—­a personality.”

Gryce was still looking at him under lowering brows, but the singular light in his eyes had brightened.  At last he said, in another and much quieter voice: 

“Look here, sir.  I like you, if you don’t mind my saying so.  I think you are really on the side of the people and I’m sure you’re a brave man.  A lot braver than you know, perhaps.  We daren’t touch what you propose with a barge pole; and so far from wanting you in the old party, we’d rather you ran your own risk by yourself.  But because I like you and respect your pluck, I’ll do you a good turn before we part.  I don’t want you to waste time barking up the wrong tree.  You talk about how the new squire got the money to buy, and the ruin of the old squire, and all the rest of it.  Well, I’ll give you a hint about that, a hint about something precious few people know.”

“I am very grateful,” said Fisher, gravely.  “What is it?”

“It’s in two words,” said the other.  “The new squire was quite poor when he bought.  The old squire was quite rich when he sold.”

Horne Fisher looked at him thoughtfully as he turned away abruptly and busied himself with the papers on his desk.  Then Fisher uttered a short phrase of thanks and farewell, and went out into the street, still very thoughtful.