Dominey nodded.

“Before I go to bed to-night,” he said, “I shall send a cheque for twenty thousand pounds to the estate account at your bank at Wells.  The money is there waiting, put aside for just that one purpose and—­well, you may just as well have it.”

Agent and bailiff leaned back in the tonneau of their motor-car, half an hour later, with immense cigars in their mouths and a pleasant, rippling warmth in their veins.  They had the sense of having drifted into fairyland.  Their philosophy, however, met the situation.

“It’s a fair miracle,” Mr. Lees declared.

“A modern romance,” Mr. Johnson, who read novels, murmured.  “Hello, here’s a visitor for the Hall,” he added, as a car swept by them.

“Comfortable-looking gent, too,” Mr. Lees remarked.

The “comfortable-looking gent” was Otto Seaman, who presented himself at the Hall with a small dressing-bag and a great many apologies.

“Found myself in Norwich, Sir Everard,” he explained.  “I have done business there all my life, and one of my customers needed looking after.  I finished early, and when I found that I was only thirty miles off you, I couldn’t resist having a run across.  If it is in any way inconvenient to put me up for the night, say so—­”

“My dear fellow!” Dominey interrupted.  “There are a score of rooms ready.  All that we need is to light a fire, and an old-fashioned bed-warmer will do the rest.  You remember Mr. Mangan?”

The two men shook hands, and Seaman accepted a little refreshment after his drive.  He lingered behind for a moment after the dressing bell had rung.

“What time is that fellow going?” he asked.

“Nine o’clock to-morrow morning,” Dominey replied.

“Not a word until then,” Seaman whispered back.  “I must not seem to be hanging after you too much—­I really did not want to come—­but the matter is urgent.”

“We can send Mangan to bed early,” Dominey suggested.

“I am the early bird myself,” was the weary reply.  “I was up all last night.  To-morrow morning will do.”

Dinner that night was a pleasant and social meal.  Mr. Mangan especially was uplifted.  Everything to do with the Domineys for the last fifteen years had reeked of poverty.  He had really had a hard struggle to make both ends meet.  There had been disagreeable interviews with angry tenants, formal interviews with dissatisfied mortgagees, and remarkably little profit at the end of the year to set against these disagreeable episodes.  The new situation was almost beatific.  The concluding touch, perhaps, was in Parkins’ congratulatory whisper as he set a couple of decanters upon the table.

“I have found a bin of Cockburn’s fifty-one, sir,” he announced, including the lawyer in his confidential whisper.  “I thought you might like to try a couple of bottles, as Mr. Mangan seems rather a connoisseur, sir.  The corks appear to be in excellent condition.”