“All right,” said Mr. Preen. “You will not repent it.”
Then they fell to talking of horses in general, and of other topics. I stayed on, sitting by the window, not having received the message for Massock. Mr. Preen stayed also, making no move to go away; when it suddenly occurred to the Squire—he mentioned it later—that perhaps Preen might be waiting for the money.
“Ten pounds, I think, was the price agreed upon,” observed the Squire with ready carelessness. “Would you like to be paid now?”
“If it does not inconvenience you.”
The Squire unlocked his shabby old bureau, which stood against the wall, fingered his stock of money, and brought forth a ten-pound bank-note. This he handed to Preen, together with a sheet of paper, that he might give a receipt.
When the receipt was written, Mr. Preen took up the note, looked at it for a moment or two, and then passed it back again.
“Would you mind writing your name on this note, Squire?”
The Squire laughed gently. “Not at all,” he answered; “but why should I? Do you think it is a bad one? No fear, Preen; I had it from the Old Bank at Worcester.”
“No, I do not fear that,” said Preen, speaking quietly. “But since a disagreeable trouble which happened to me some years ago, I have always liked, when receiving a bank-note, to get, if possible, the donor’s name upon it in his own handwriting.”