“A father’s not to be held responsible for the sins of his children, squire.  My daughter’s left me.  She’s away.  I saw my daughter at the theatre in London.  She saw me, and saw her sister with me.  She disappeared.  It’s a hard thing for a man to be saying of his own flesh and blood.  She disappeared.  She went, knowing her father’s arms open to her.  She was in company with your son.”

The squire was thrumming on the arm of his chair.  He looked up vaguely, as if waiting for the question to follow, but meeting the farmer’s settled eyes, he cried, irritably, “Well, what’s that to me?”

“What’s that to you, squire?”

“Are you going to make me out responsible for my son’s conduct?  My son’s a rascal—­everybody knows that.  I paid his debts once, and I’ve finished with him.  Don’t come to me about the fellow.  If there’s a greater curse than the gout, it’s a son.”

“My girl,” said the farmer, “she’s my flesh and blood, and I must find her, and I’m here to ask you to make your son tell me where she’s to be found.  Leave me to deal with that young man—­leave you me! but I want my girl.”

“But I can’t give her to you,” roared the squire, afflicted by his two great curses at once.  “Why do you come to me?  I’m not responsible for the doings of the dog.  I’m sorry for you, if that’s what you want to know.  Do you mean to say that my son took her away from your house?”

“I don’t do so, Mr. Blancove.  I’m seeking for my daughter, and I see her in company with your son.”

“Very well, very well,” said the squire; “that shows his habits; I can’t say more.  But what has it got to do with me?”

The farmer looked helplessly at Robert.

“No, no,” the squire sung out, “no interlopers, no interpreting here.  I listen to you.  My son—­your daughter.  I understand that, so far.  It’s between us two.  You’ve got a daughter who’s gone wrong somehow:  I’m sorry to hear it.  I’ve got a son who never went right; and it’s no comfort to me, upon my word.  If you were to see the bills and the letters I receive! but I don’t carry my grievances to my neighbours.  I should think, Fleming, you’d do best, if it’s advice you’re seeking, to keep it quiet.  Don’t make a noise about it.  Neighbours’ gossip I find pretty well the worst thing a man has to bear, who’s unfortunate enough to own children.”

The farmer bowed his head with that bitter humbleness which characterized his reception of the dealings of Providence toward him.

“My neighbours ’ll soon be none at all,” he said.  “Let ’em talk.  I’m not abusing you, Mr. Blancove.  I’m a broken man:  but I want my poor lost girl, and, by God, responsible for your son or not, you must help me to find her.  She may be married, as she says.  She mayn’t be.  But I must find her.”

The squire hastily seized a scrap of paper on the table and wrote on it.