“Of course it is,” was the reply.  “You are a true friend.  I’ll step round to the barn and see what is doing.”  And away went Susan’s father uneasy in his mind.

Meadows went to the “Black Horse,” the village public house, to see what farmers wanted to borrow a little money under the rose, and would pawn their wheat ricks, and pay twenty per cent for that overrated merchandise.

At the door of the public-house he was met by the village constable, and a stranger of gentlemanly address and clerical appearance.  The constable wore a mysterious look and invited Meadows into the parlor of the public-house.

“I have news for you, sir,” said he, “leastways I think so; your pocket was picked last Martinmas fair of three Farnborough bank-notes with your name on the back.”

“It was!”

“Is this one of them?” said the man, producing a note.

Meadows examined it with interest, compared the number with a memorandum in his pocketbook, and pronounced that it was.

“Who passed it?” inquired he.

“A chap that has got the rest—­a stranger—­Robinson—­that lodges at “The Grove” with George Fielding; that is, if his name is Robinson, but we think he is a Londoner come down to take an airing.  You understand, Sir.”

Meadows’ eyes flashed actual fire.  For so rich a man, he seemed wonderfully excited by this circumstance.

To an inquiry who was his companion, the constable answered sotto voce, “Gentleman from Bow Street, come to see if he knows him.”  The constable went on to inform Meadows that Robinson was out fishing somewhere, otherwise they would already have taken him; “but we will hang about the farm, and take him when he comes home.”

“You had better be at hand, sir, to identify the notes,” said the gentleman from Bow Street, whose appearance was clerical.

Meadows had important business five miles off; he postponed it.  He wrote a line in pencil, put a boy upon his black mare, and hurried him off to the rendezvous, while he stayed and entered with strange alacrity into this affair.  “Stay,” cried he, “if he is an old hand he will twig the officer.”

“Oh, I’m dark, sir,” was the answer; “he won’t know me till I put the darbies on him.”

The two men then strolled as far as the village stocks, keeping an eye ever on the farm-house.

Thus a network of adverse events was closing round George Fielding this day.

He was all unconscious of them; he was in good spirits.  Robinson had showed him how to relieve the temporary embarrassment that had lately depressed him.

“Draw a bill on your brother,” said Robinson, “and let him accept it.  The Farnborough Bank will give you notes for it.  These country banks like any paper better than their own.  I dare say they are right.”

George had done this, and expected William every minute with this and other moneys.  And then Susanna Merton was to dine at “The Grove” to-day, and this, though not uncommon, was always a great event with poor George.