The Squire rose.
“Come now, Barter!” he said.
The Rector blushed. He hated tale-bearing—that is, of course, in the case of a man; the case of a woman was different—and just as, when he went to Bellew he had been careful not to give George away, so now he was still more on his guard.
“No, no, Pendyce.”
The Squire began to pace the room, and Mr. Barter felt something stir against his foot; the spaniel John emerging at the end, just where the moonlight shone, a symbol of all that was subservient to the Squire, gazed up at his master with tragic eyes. 'Here, again,' they seemed to say, 'is something to disturb me!'
The Squire broke the silence.
“I've always counted on you, Barter; I count on you as I would on my own brother. Come, now, what's this about George?”
'After all,' thought the Rector, 'it's his father!'—“I know nothing but what they say,” he blurted forth; “they talk of his having lost a lot of money. I dare say it's all nonsense. I never set much store by rumour. And if he's sold the horse, well, so much the better. He won't be tempted to gamble again.”
But Horace Pendyce made no answer. A single thought possessed his bewildered, angry mind:
'My son a gambler! Worsted Skeynes in the hands of a gambler!'