Once more there was a silence in the library of King’s Barton Manor. But when the Squire turned round, he seemed in the best of spirits. “It’s not your job, of course, this kind of thing. But I’m an old man and I don’t think you’re touchy about trifles. Jog the memory of the good Torp, then, will you? What? Jolt the torpid Torp. That’s the word, eh? Tell the beggar in good clear English that I’ll go to Dorchester for that stone if he doesn’t set it up within the week. You can do that for me, Solent? But it’s not important. If it’s a bother, let it go! But have a good luncheon at the Three Peewits anyway! Make ’em give ’ee their own ale. It’s good. It’s excellent. That individual down at Pond Cottage gets drunk on it every night, Monk tells me.”

Turning again to the bookcase, Mr. Urquhart made as though the conversation had terminated; and Wolf, after a moment or two of that awkward hesitation which a subordinate feels when he is uncertain as to what particular gesture of parting is required, went straight out of the room, without a word, and ran downstairs.