“Lookye, Jeremiah Filson,” said the Squire at last, as he eyed the letter covetously, “Foxwell can’t for his life give you twenty pounds ready money for that piece of paper. In any case you may be sure I can outbid him. Don’t you approach him at all, that’s my advice. ’Twould be time lost, if you expect to get anything worth while; and, besides that, he’s a shrewd fellow, is Mr. Foxwell, and he might bubble you out of the letter before ever you knew what you were at. You’d best deal with me, you had. Understand, I wouldn’t make any harmful use of it, though I do dislike the man. But I have the fancy to crow over him a little, d’ye see,—that’s all,—nothing harmful. Now what—”
At this critical moment the pair were interrupted by Bartholomew looking in and announcing that the horses were ready. Thornby bade him shut the door, wait outside, and be damned. The first and second of these items being complied with, the Squire entered into negotiations with Mr. Filson for the possession of the letter. That gentleman, having carefully put away the document in its former resting-place, seemed in no hurry to come to terms. He listened to the Squire with sedate civility, but was adamant upon the point of a good round sum in ready money. The end of their talk was that Filson agreed to call at Thornby Hall the next day, and not to dispose of the letter in the meantime. The Squire did not tell the man that Mr. Foxwell was even then under the same roof with them. If Filson found this out before Foxwell’s departure, a meeting might occur, though it was scarce likely that Foxwell would give opportunity for it at the inn. In any case, the Squire would have a chance to outbid his enemy. Having elicited the further promise that Filson would not at any time tell Foxwell that he, the Squire, was dealing for the letter, or knew of its existence, he took his leave.
Mr. Filson heard the Squire’s horses clatter out of the passage, and break into a trot in the High Street. As the sound died away, he drank the last of his ale, and indulged in a comfortable smile.
“A mighty fortunate meeting,” he mused. “This booby will buy the letter at my own price. He would give his brains, if he had any, for the means of getting the upper hand of his enemy. And a perfectly safe man to deal with, too. As for Foxwell, I could never be sure but he would cut my throat if I went to him with the letter. Now that difficulty is removed,—’tis certainly the hand of Providence.”
He yawned profoundly, and then resumed:
“I may find this Justice of the Peace a convenient friend if I have occasion to tarry in this neighbourhood. But I’ll get his money for the letter first: otherwise he might make his friendship a part of the price. A fool would have gone farther at this first interview,—but you’re no fool, Jeremiah; no, sir, a fool is what you certainly are not.”
He rang the bell and asked to be shown to a bedroom, saying he had not slept the previous night. Being informed by the landlady that a room would be ready in ten minutes, he strolled out to the yard to pass the intervening time there. He had taken a turn or two, when out from the kitchen came a young woman who seemed to be in a huff. She was very red in the face, and talked ostensibly to herself, but really for the benefit of all who might hear.
“The conversation of that London maid is truly scangelous!” quoth she.
“Eh, my dear,” said Mr. Filson, stopping in front of her, “has anybody been scandalizing those pretty ears of yours?”
Prudence—for it was Miss Foxwell’s maid—took note of the stranger with much artless affectation of surprise, exclaiming: