There was a moment of uncertainty on Tristram's side. He stroked Arabella's long neck thoughtfully.
"Still, I think we'd better say what we want to say now. Your mare looks pretty winded—mine's all in. It won't hurt to breathe them both."
"As you like," Barclay answered. His manner was touched with a certain tremulousness which might have resulted from his rash gallop through the treacherous grass. But otherwise there was no trace of the man who had broken down at the temple gateway. "Look here," he began abruptly, "do you think you're playing the game, Major Tristram? What's your idea? What have I done to you? We don't need to beat about the bush. I know quite well whom I'm up against. I tell you straight—I've got a short way with people who oppose me—I smash them. But I don't smash till I've tried reason. Why don't you let my affairs alone?"
Tristram stirred impatiently in his saddle.
"I'm not interested in your affairs, Mr. Barclay, except in so far as they concern my friends."
"Friends!" Barclay laughed out with a forced good-humour. "And what have I done to your friends, pray? Look around you. Look at these rotten crops. Well, I've lent good money on these crops—lent it to your precious protégés. When am I going to see my money back?"
"When you want to," Tristram returned. "Next harvest, or as soon as the poor devils get a cow they can call their own—and fifty per cent. into the bargain."
Barclay shrugged his shoulders.
"Fifty per cent. covers the risks—no more."
"Then it's a pity you bother yourself."