Squire Culpepper, at this time, was from fifty-five to sixty years old. He was a short, wiry, keen-faced man, with restless, fidgety ways, and a firm belief in his own shrewdness and knowledge of the world. Except when dressed for dinner, his ordinary attire was a homely suit of shepherd's plaid, with thick shoes and gaiters. His head-gear was a white hat, with a black band, generally much the worse for wear. The squire's shabby hats were known to everybody. His tongue was sharp, and his temper hasty, but he was as sweet and sound at heart as one of his own Ribstone pippins.
Mr. Cope had a fine, handsome modern-built house just outside Duxley. When Lionel arrived, he found his host in the drawing-room waiting to receive him. The squire had not yet come. When he did arrive, he was half-an-hour past his time. He apologized, on the ground that he had been to a sale of cattle some twenty miles off, and had not been able to get back earlier. It was obvious to Lionel, and doubtless to Mr. Cope also, that the squire had been drinking--not inordinately, by any means, but just enough to make him more merry and talkative than usual. After dinner, some splendid old port was put on the table; and it seemed to Lionel that the banker, while drinking nothing but an innocuous claret himself, kept pressing the decanter of port on the squire's attention oftener than was at all necessary, and seemingly of set purpose. The squire, nothing loath, smacked his lips, and drank glass after glass with evident gusto. As a consequence, he became more merry and communicative than ever. Had Lionel known at the time what a very rare occurrence it was for the squire to allow himself to become, even in the slightest degree, the worse for wine, he might have asked himself whether the banker's object was not to obtain from him, while in that talkative mood, certain information which it would have been hopeless to expect him to divulge at any other time. But Lionel, knowing nothing of this, was entirely in the dark as to what Mr. Cope's object could possibly be.
"Did you buy any stock at Cottingly, to-day?" asked the banker.
"Not a single hoof," answered the squire. "The prices were ruination. I'll keep my money in my pocket, and wait for better times."
"You know Cottingly, don't you?" he asked presently of the banker.
"Pretty well," answered Mr. Cope.
"Do you know Drake and Harding, the architects?"
"I've heard of the firm--nothing more. But if you want an architect, there's a clever young fellow here in Duxley."
"I know him. His name's Beakon. He's quite a fool."
"Quite a fool, is he?" said the banker, equably. "So be it."
"I've proved it, sir--proved it. No, Drake and Harding are the men for my money. Everything's settled. They'll bring the plans over to Pincote on Wednesday afternoon. If you have nothing better to do, you may as well drive over and help me to decide on the most suitable one."
"The plans! What plans?" said Mr. Cope, in astonishment. "You forget that I'm altogether in the dark."
"Why, what plans could I mean but the plans for my new house?" cried the squire, as he refilled his glass. "I thought I had told you all about it weeks ago."
"This is the first time you have ever hinted at such a thing. But you don't mean to say that you are going to pull down Pincote!"
"I mean to say nothing of the kind," said the squire, peevishly. "But, for all that, I may be allowed to build myself a new house if I choose to do so, I suppose?"
"Certainly--certainly," said the banker, with a look of deprecation.
"I know what you think."
"I beg your pardon."
"I say, sir, that I know what you think," repeated the squire, with half-sober vehemence. "You think that because I've reduced my balance during the last six months from nine thousand pounds to somewhere about three thousand, and because I've sold all my stocks and securities, that I've been making ducks and drakes of my money, and don't know what I'm about. But you never made a greater mistake in your life, Horatio Cope."
"You do me a great injustice, my dear squire. No such thought ever entered my mind."
"Don't tell me. I know what you bankers are."
Mr. Cope shrugged his shoulders and looked, at Lionel with the air of an injured man.
"You don't believe in any speculation unless you've a finger in the pie yourself," continued the squire. "But other people have got their heads screwed on right as well as you. Why, man, I tell you that in less than six months from this time, I shall be worth an extra hundred thousand pounds at the very least."
"I'm truly delighted to hear it," said the banker, heartily. "No man will congratulate you with more sincerity than I shall."
"And you ought to be delighted to hear it, seeing that my daughter and your son will soon be man and wife. But, mind you, I don't mean to turn miser with it. I intend to build, and plant, and dig. You know Knockley Holt, that bit of scrubby ground just outside the park?"
"I know it well."
"That's the spot where I intend to build my new house. The young folk can have Pincote. I don't intend to pull the old place down. After I'm gone, of course the new place will be theirs as well. And, if I live, I mean to make it a place worth having."
The squire refilled his glass. Mr. Cope, deep in thought, was absently drumming with his fingers on the table.
"Pincote is a very old place, is it not?" asked Lionel.
"It was built three hundred and fifteen years ago, and it's still as weather-proof as ever it was. But because one's great grandfather six times removed, chose to build a house, is that any reason why I shouldn't build another? At all events, I mean to try what I can do."
"The speculation you have hit upon must be something remarkable," said the banker, holding up a glass of wine before the lamp.
"It is. Something very remarkable," said Mr. Culpepper with a chuckle. "You would like to know the ins and outs of it, wouldn't you, now?"
"I should, indeed. It's too bad of you to keep such a good thing all to yourself."
"Ha! ha!" laughed the squire, in high glee. "I thought you would say that. You'll know all in good time, I dare say. But at present--it's a secret. That's what it is--a secret."
"Must have found a silver mine on his estate," said Mr. Cope, with a sly look at Lionel.
"Or a coal mine, which would be pretty much the same thing," returned Lionel.
The squire laughed loud and long. "Ah you're a sharp lot, you bankers," he cried. "But you don't know everything." And then he winked at Lionel.
Lionel was not sorry when the evening came to an end, and he found himself on his way back to Park Newton. "My first introduction to Midlandshire society is not very promising," he said to himself. "I hope to find it a little more entertaining by-and-by."
The squire, after being safely helped into his dog-cart, was driven home by his groom.
Mr. Cope, after his guests were gone, stood for a full quarter of an hour with his back to the drawing-room fire, ruminating over the events of the evening. Judging by the settled frown on his face, his meditations were anything but pleasant ones. "My worst fears are confirmed," he said to himself. "Culpepper has been induced to speculate on his own account. His balance at the bank yesterday was only two thousand and odd pounds,--and every security disposed of! Some swindler has got hold of him, and the result will be that he will lose every penny that he has invested. Build himself a new mansion, indeed! Unless he's very careful, the Court of Bankruptcy will soon be the only mansion he can claim the right to enter."
At this moment his son, Edward, entered the room.
"Have you been to Pincote to-day?" said the banker.
"I have just returned from there," answered the young