The squire shook his head, the fingers of his thin, right hand beating a mournful tune on the tablecloth.
“No. I’ve no doubt you are right. It doesn’t signify who or what he is; his claim is a lawful one, and I must meet it. I thought you ought to know.”
“Yes, if it’s the man I think it is, you will have to meet it,” said Bradstone. “These fellows will have their bond; and you can’t blame them. Business is business.”
“I do not blame him,” said the poor squire, simply. “What troubles me is the fact that I do not know how to arrange for his claim.”
Bartley Bradstone looked at the letter again.
“What is the amount?” he said.
The squire, after a few minutes’ reflection, told him, and he whistled again. It was not a loud whistle, but it jarred upon the squire’s nerves.
“Look here,” said Bradstone, after an artistic pause. “If you will leave this to me I will try and arrange it for you——”
The squire looked up, and his face flushed.
“I—I could not permit you to pay it,” he said, gravely.