The former seemed to have been counting something,
but stopped abruptly as the women came into the room.
There was a little heap of bank-notes lying on the table. Stephen
snatched them up hastily, and thrust them in a bundle into his
waistcoat-pocket; while the stranger put a strap round a bulky red
morocco pocket-book with a more deliberate air, as of one who had nothing
to hide from the world.
That guilty furtive air of Stephen's, and, above all, that passage of
money between the two men, confirmed Mrs. Tadman in her notion that
Wyncomb Farm was going to change hands. She resumed her seat by the fire
with a groan, and accepted Ellen's offer of a glass of spirits-and-water
with a doleful shake of her head.
"Didn't I tell you so?" she whispered, as Mrs. Whitelaw handed her the
comforting beverage.
The stranger was evidently on the point of departure. There was a sound
of wheels on the gravel outside the parlour window--the familiar sound of
Stephen Whitelaw's chaise-cart; and that gentleman was busy helping his
visitor on with his great-coat.
"I shall be late for the last train," said the stranger, "unless your man
drives like the very devil."
"He'll drive fast enough, I daresay, if you give him half-a-crown," Mr.
Whitelaw answered with a grin; "but don't let him go and do my horse any
damage, or you'll have to pay for it.
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