in value every year. I've
been farming at a growing loss these six years, and rents don't come in
as they used to do. I got my chance and I took it. Lord Bellamy wanted
to join the Mount Royal and the three estates. My little bit o' land
lay between 'em, and I sold it to him. Sold it, too, begad, as well as I
could have done half a dozen years ago.'

Then he laughed once more with great heartiness, and unbuttoning his
overcoat, groped in an inner pocket. After a struggle, in the course
of which he grew very red in the face, he drew forth a pocket-book of
unusual dimensions, and slapped it on the desk so vigorously that his
companion started.

'I got a tip the other day,' he went on; 'that old bank at Mount Royal,
Fellowes and Fellowes, is going to crack up, my boy. There's something
very queer in the commercial atmosphere just now, Bommaney. There are
lots of old-fashioned solid people breaking up.'

To Bommaney's uneasy fancy there was in his visitor's voice an accent
which sounded personal.

'I--I hope not,' he answered, somewhat feebly, 'so much depends----'
(he tried hard to rally himself), 'so much depends upon a spirit of
commercial confidence.'

'Exactly,' cried the visitor, laying hands' upon the pocket-book and
opening it. 'I went to the bank and saw young Fellowes myself. "Look
here, Fellowes," I told him, "I want my daughter's money." He stuck to
it, sir; like a dog holding on to a bone. He growled about it, and he
whined about it, said it wasn't fair to withdraw the money on short
notice. Said I couldn't do better with it anywhere, and at last I told
him, "Look here, Fellowes, I shall begin to think by and by there's
something wrong." He went as red as a turkey-cock, begad, and drew a
note on their London agent like a lord, and here I am with the money.
Eight thousand pounds.'

By this time he had drawn a bundle of bank-notes from the pocket-book,
and now sat flicking the edges of the notes with the tips of his great
broad fingers. Bommaney heard the crisp music, and looked up with a
momentary glance of hunger in his eyes.

'That's Patty's little private handful,' the visitor continued, opening
the packet of notes, and smoothing it upon his knee. 'Eighty notes of
a hundred. Pretty little handful, isn't it? They don't look,' he added,
with his head reflectively on one side and his eyebrows raised a little,
'they don't look as they'd buy as much as they will.'

Bommaney tried to find a commonplace wo