Part 52 (1/2)

”He says he owes you money, and that you threaten to ruin him. Is that so?”

”Upon my word, if you want to know, it is.”

”How much is it, please?”

Ratman laughed.

”Nothing. A trifle. Fifteen hundred pounds or thereabouts.”

”Fifteen hundred!” faltered she. ”Does he owe you all that.”

The little she had to offer was a drop in the bucket only.

”Look here,” said he; ”Miss Rosy, your father's in a fix. I don't want to be hard on him, but I must have my money or its equivalent. Now, I should consider it a very fair equivalent to be allowed to call him father-in-law. I may not be up to your mark in some things, Miss Rosalind, but I've a good name, and I flatter myself I know beauty when I see it. Now, think over it. It's the only chance your father's got, and you might do worse for yourself than become the mistress of Maxfield. Good-bye. Shake hands.”

She drew herself up with an air and a flush of colour which redoubled his admiration, and without a word, turned away with rapid steps.

Mr Ratman was sorely tempted to follow this beautiful creature, who, in all his chequered career, had been the only human being to discover the few last dregs of affection in his nature. As much as it was possible in such a man, he was in love with this debtor's daughter. The sensation was novel and exhilarating enough to afford him food for cheerful reflection as he walked on towards the station.

So engrossed was he in his day-dreams that he forgot that even country trains are occasionally punctual, and that, at least, he had not much time left him to catch the one he aimed at. Indeed, it was not till, within a few minutes of the station, he caught sight of the train already standing at the platform that it occurred to him to bestir himself. He ran, shouted, and waved his arm all at the same time, but to no effect. The whistle blew as he entered the yard, and as he reached the platform the guard's van was gliding out of the station.

Thoroughly ruffled--for this was the last train to town--Mr Ratman vented his wrath on the world in general, and the railway officials in particular, even including in his objurgations an unlucky pa.s.senger who had arrived by the train and shared with him the uninterrupted possession of the platform.

”Easy, young man,” said the latter, a substantial-looking, bony individual with a wrinkled face, and speaking with a decided American tw.a.n.g. ”You'll hurt yourself, I reckon, if you talk like that. It's bad for the jaws.”

Mr Ratman took a contemptuous survey of the stranger and quitted the platform.

His first idea was to return to Maxfield and demand entertainment there for the night. But since he would have to walk all the way, and the first train in the morning left Yeld at eight, he decided to put up at the little hotel of the village instead, and with that object threw himself and his bag into the omnibus of that establishment which waited on the trains.

Somewhat to his disgust, the stranger, after collecting his baggage, entered the same vehicle and took a seat opposite him.

”Wal,” said he, ”you'll have time to cool down before the next train, young man. Putting up at the hotel?”

”Where else should I put up?” growled Ratman. ”What business is it of yours?”

”I guess it's my business to get all the information I can on this trip.

I came over this side to learn.”

”You've come to a queer hole to do it,” said Ratman, beginning to feel he might as well resign himself to circ.u.mstances.

”Just so. It's changed a bit since I was here last. We had to drive from Barbeck then.”

”So you know the place, do you?” inquired Ratman.

”That's so,” was the laconic rejoinder. ”A resident, likely?”

”Well, not at present, or I shouldn't be going to the inn.”

”Down here on business, I reckon? I was a bagman myself once.”