Swallow was a personage whose like was found too often in the small Pennsylvania villages.  The only child of a close-fisted, saving farmer, he found himself on his father’s death more than sufficiently well-off to go to college and later to study law.  He was careful and penurious, but failing of success in Philadelphia returned to Westways when about thirty years old, bought a piece of land in the town, built a house, married a pretty, commonplace young woman, and began to look for business.  There was little to be had.  The Squire drew his own leases and sold lands to farmers unaided.  Then Swallow began to take interest in politics and to lend money to the small farmers, taking mortgages at carefully guarded, usurious interest.  Merciless foreclosures resulted, and as by degrees his operations enlarged, he grew richer and became feared and important in a county community where money was scarce.  Some of his victims went in despair to the much loved Squire for help, and got, over and over, relief, which disappointed Swallow who disliked him as he did no other man in the county.  The Squire returned his enmity with contemptuous bitterness and entire distrust of the man and all his ways.

Mr. Grey saw in the further room the back of a thin figure in a white jacket seated at a desk.  The man thus occupied on hearing his entrance said, without looking back, “Sit down, and in a moment I’ll attend to you.”

Grey replied, “In a moment you won’t see me;” and, his voice rising, “I am accustomed to be treated with civility.”

Swallow rose at once, and seeing a well-dressed stranger said, “Excuse me, I was drawing a mortgage for a farmer I expected.  Take a seat.  I am at your service.”

Somewhat mollified, Grey sat down.  As he took his seat he was not at all sure of what he was really willing to say or do.  He was not an indecisive person at home, but here in a Northern State, on what might be hostile ground, he was in doubt concerning that which he felt he honourably owed as a duty to his neighbour.  The word had for him limiting definitions, as indeed it has for most of us.  Resolving to be cautious, he said with deliberate emphasis, “I should like what I have to say to be considered, sir, as George Washington used to remark, as ’under the rose’—­a strictly professional confidence.”

“Of course,” said Swallow.

“My name is George Grey.  I am at Grey Pine on a visit to my cousin, Mrs. Penhallow.”

“A most admirable lady,” said the lawyer; “absent just now, I hear.”  He too determined on caution.

“I have been wandering about your quiet little town this morning and made some odd acquaintances.  One Billy, he called himself, most amusing—­most amusing.  It seems that my cousin gave him money to pay his poll-tax.  The poor simple fellow bought a fishing-pole and line.  He was, I fancy, to vote for Buchanan.  My cousin, I infer, must be like all our people a sound Democrat.”