that two policemen were in the house
at Tretton. But it was soon known that no policemen were there, and that
the squire was free to go whither he would, or rather whither he could.
In fact, though the will to punish him, and even to arrest him, was
there, no one had the power to do him an injury.

It was then declared that he had in no sense broken the law,--that no
evil act of his could be proved,--that though he had wished his eldest
son to inherit the property wrongfully, he had only wished it; and that
he had now simply put his wishes into unison with the law, and had
undone the evil which he had hitherto only contemplated. Indeed, the
world at large rather sympathized with the squire when Mr. Tyrrwhit's
dealings became known, for it was supposed by many that Mr. Tyrrwhit was
to have become the sole owner of Tretton.

But the creditors were still loud, and still envenomed. They and their
emissaries hung about Tretton and demanded to know where was the
captain. Of the captain's whereabouts his father knew nothing, not even
whether he was still alive; for the captain had actually disappeared
from the world, and his creditors could obtain no tidings respecting
him. At this period, and for long afterward, they imagined that he and
his father were in league together, and were determined to try at law
the question as to the legitimacy of his birth as soon as the old squire
should be dead. But the old squire did not die. Though his life was
supposed to be most precarious he still continued to live, and became
even stronger. But he remained shut up at Tretton, and utterly refused
to see any emissary of any creditor. To give Mr. Tyrrwhit his due, it
must be acknowledged that he personally sent no emissaries, having
contented himself with putting the business into the hands of a very
sharp attorney. But there were emissaries from others, who after a while
were excluded altogether from the park.

Here Mr. Scarborough continued to live, coming out on to the lawn in his
easy-chair, and there smoking his cigar and reading his French novel
through the hot July days. To tell the truth, he cared very little for
the emissaries, excepting so far as they had been allowed to interfere
with his own personal comfort. In these days he had down with him two or
three friends from London, who were good enough to make up for him a
whist-table in the country; but he found the chief interest in his life
in the occasional visits of his younge