Ah, she had it—­Geoffrey Bingham should lend the money!  He could well afford it now, and she shrewdly guessed that he would not grudge the coat off his back if he thought that by giving it he might directly or indirectly help Beatrice.  Her father must go up to town to see him, she would have no letter-writing; one never knows how a letter may be read.  He must see Mr. Bingham, and if possible bring him down to Bryngelly.  In a moment every detail of the plot became clear to Elizabeth’s mind, and then she spoke.

“You must not go to Mr. Davies, father,” she said; “he is a hard man, and would only refuse and put you in a false position; you must go to Mr. Bingham.  Listen:  he is rich now, and he is very fond of you and of Beatrice.  He will lend you a hundred pounds at once.  You must go to London by the early train to-morrow, and drive straight to his chambers and see him.  It will cost two pounds to get there and back, but that cannot be helped; it is safer than writing, and I am sure that you will not go for nothing.  And see here, father, bring Mr. Bingham back with you for a few days if you can.  It will be a little return for his kindness, and I know that he is not well.  Beatrice had a letter from him in which he said that he was so overworked that he thought he must take a little rest soon.  Bring him back for Whit-Sunday.”

Mr. Granger hesitated, demurred, and finally yielded.  The weak, querulous old farmer clergyman, worn out with many daily cares and quite unsupported by mental resources, was but a tool in Elizabeth’s able hands.  He did not indeed feel any humiliation at the idea of trying to borrow the cash, for his nature was not finely strung, and money troubles had made him callous to the verge of unscrupulousness; but he did not like the idea of a journey to London, where he had not been for more than twenty years, and the expenditure that it entailed.  Still he acted as Elizabeth bade him, even to keeping the expedition secret from Beatrice.  Beatrice, as her sister explained to him, was proud as Lucifer, and might raise objections if she knew that he was going to London to borrow money of Mr. Bingham.  This indeed she would certainly have done.

On the following afternoon—­it was the Friday before Whit-Sunday, and the last day of the Easter sittings—­Geoffrey sat in his chambers, in the worst possible spirits, thoroughly stale and worn out with work.  There was a consultation going on, and his client, a pig-headed Norfolk farmer, who was bent upon proceeding to trial with some extraordinary action for trespass against his own landlord, was present with his solicitor.  Geoffrey in a few short, clear words had explained the absurdity of the whole thing, and strongly advised him to settle, for the client had insisted on seeing him, refusing to be put off with a written opinion.  But the farmer was not satisfied, and the solicitor was now endeavouring to let the pure light of law into the darkness of his injured soul.