Such were the soft, balmy conditions in and around the Temple Mansion—conditions bringing only peace and comfort—(heart-aches were kept in check)—when one August morning there came so decided a change of weather that everybody began at once to get in out of the wet. The storm had been brewing for some days up Moorlands way, where all Harry's storms started, but up to the present moment there had been no indications in and about Kennedy Square of its near approach, or even of its existence.

It was quite early in the day when the big drops began to patter down on Todd's highly polished knocker. Breakfast had been served and the mail but half opened—containing among other missives a letter from Poe acknowledging one from St. George, in which he wrote that he might soon be in Kennedy Square on his way to Richmond—a piece of news which greatly delighted Harry—and another from Tom Coston, inviting them both to Wesley for the fall shooting, with a postscript to the effect that Willits was “still at the Red Sulphur with the Seymours”—(a piece of news which greatly depressed him)—when Todd answered a thunderous rat-a-tat and immediately thereafter recrossed the hall and opened the dining-room door just wide enough to thrust in first his scared face—then his head—shoulder—arm—and last his hand, on the palm of which lay a small, greasy card bearing the inscription:

John Gadgem, Agent.

The darky, evidently, was not in a normal condition, for after a moment's nervous hesitation, his eyes over his shoulder as if fearing he was being followed, he squeezed in the rest of his body, closed the door softly behind him, and said in a hoarse whisper to the room at large:

“Dat's de same man been here three times yisterday. He asked fust fer Marse Harry, an' when I done tol' him he warn't home—you was 'sleep upstairs, Marse Harry, but I warn't gwineter 'sturb ye—he say he come back dis mawnin'.”

“Well, but what does he want?” asked Harry, dropping a lump of sugar in his cup. He had been accumstomed to be annoyed by agents of all kinds who wanted to sell him one thing or another—and so he never allowed any one to get at him unless his business was stated beforehand. He had learned this from his father.

“I dun'no, sah.”

“What does he look like, Todd?” cried St. George, breaking the seal of another letter.

“Wall, he ain't no gemman—he's jus' a pusson I reckon. I done tol' him you warn't out o' bed yit, but he said he'd wait. I got him shet outside, but I can't fool him no mo'. What'll I do now?”

“Well, what do you think he wants, then?” Harry burst out impatiently.

“Well,” said Todd—“ef I was to tell ye God's truf', I reckon he wants money. He says he's been to de big house—way out to de colonel's, and dey th'owed him out—and now he's gwineter sit down yere till somebody listens to him. It won't do to fool wid him, Marse Harry—I see dat de fus' time he come. He's a he-one—and he's got horns on him for sho'. What'll I do?”

Both Harry and St. George roared.

“Why bring him in, of course—a 'pusson' with horns on him will be worth seeing.”

A shabby, wizened-faced man; bent-in-the-back, gimlet-eyed, wearing a musty brown coat, soiled black stock, unspeakable linen, and skin-tight trousers held to his rusty shoes by wide straps—showing not only the knuckles of his knees but the streaked thinness of his upper shanks—(Cruikshank could have drawn him to the life)—sidled into the room, mopping his head with a red cotton handkerchief which he took from his hat.

“My name is GADgem, gentleman—Mr. John GADgem of GADgem & Combes.

“I am looking for Mr. Harry Rutter, whom I am informed—I would not say POSitively—but I am inFORMED is stopping with you, Mr. Temple. You forget me, Mr. Temple, but I do not forget you, sir. That little foreclosure matter of Bucks vs. Temple—you remember when—”

“Sit down,” said St. George curtly, laying down his knife and fork. “Todd, hand Mr. Gadgem a chair.”

The gimlet-eyed man—and it was very active—waved his hand deprecatingly.

“No, I don't think that is necessary. I can stand. I preFER to stand. I am acCUStomed to stand—I have been standing outside this gentleman's father's door now, off and on, for some weeks, and—”

“Will you tell me what you want?” interrupted Harry, curtly. References to Moorlands invariably roused his ire.

“I am coming to that, sir, slowly, but surely. Now that I have found somebody that will listen to me—that is, if you are Mr. Harry Rutter—” The deferential air with which he said this was admirable.

“Oh, yes—I'm the man,” answered Harry in a resigned voice.

“Yes, sir—so I supposed. And now I look at you, sir”—here the gimlet was in full twist—“I would make an affidavit to that effect before any notary.” He began loosening his coat with his skinny fingers, fumbling in his inside pocket, thrusting deep his hand, as if searching for an elusive insect in the vicinity of his arm-pit, his talk continuing: “Yes, sir, before any notary, you are so exactly like your father. Not that I've seen your father, sir, VERY MANY TIMES”—the elusive had evidently escaped, for his hand went deeper. “I've only seen him once—ONCE—and it was enough. It was not a pleasant visit, sir—in fact, it was a most UNpleasant visit. I came very near having cause for action—for assault, really. A very polite colored man was all that prevented it, and—Ah—here it is!” He had the minute pest now. “Permit me to separate the list from the exhibits.”

At this Gadgem's hand, clutching a bundle of papers, came out with a jerk—so much of a jerk that St. George, who was about to end the comedy by ordering the man from the room, stopped short in his protest, his curiosity getting the better of him to know what the fellow had found.

“There, sir.” Here he drew a long slip from the package, held it between his thumb and forefinger, and was about to continue, when St. George burst out with:

“Look here, Gadgem—if you have any business with Mr. Rutter you will please state it at once. We have hardly finished breakfast.”

“I beg, sir, that you will not lose your temper. It is unBUSinesslike to lose one's temper. Gadgem & Combes, sir, NEVER lose their temper. They are men of peace, sir—ALways men of peace. Mr. Combes sometimes resorts to extreme measures, but NEVER Mr. Gadgem. I am Mr. Gadgem, sir,” and he tapped his soiled shirt-front with his soiled finger-nail. “PEACE is my watchword, that is why this matter has been placed in my hands. Permit me, sir, to ask you to cast your eye over this.”

Harry, who was getting interested, scanned the long slip and handed it to St. George, who studied it for a moment and returned it to Harry.

“You will note, I beg of you, sir, the first item.” There was a tone of triumph now in Gadgem's voice. “One saddle horse sixteen hands high, bought of Hampson & Co. on the”—then he craned his neck so as to see the list over Harry's shoulder—“yes—on the SECOND of LAST September. Rather overdue, is it not, sir, if I may be permitted to remark?” This came with a lift of the eyebrows, as if Harry's oversight had been too naughty for words.

“But what the devil have I got to do with this?” The boy was thoroughly angry now. The lift of Gadgem's eyebrows did it.

“You rode the horse, sir.” This came with a certain air of “Oh! I have you now.”

“Yes, and he broke his leg and had to be shot,” burst out Harry in a tone that showed how worthless had been the bargain.

“EXactly, sir. So your father told me, sir. You don't remember having PAID Mr. Hampson for him beFORE he broke his leg, do you, sir?” He had him pinned fast now—all he had to do was to watch his victim's struggles.

“Me? No, of course not!” Harry exploded.

“EXactly so, sir—so your father told me. FORcibly, sir—and as if he was quite sure of it.”

Again he looked over Harry's shoulder, following the list with his skinny finger. At the same time he lowered his voice—became even humble. “Ah, there it is—the English racing saddle and the pair of blankets, and the—might I ask you, sir, whether you have among your papers any receipt for—?”

“But I don't pay these bills—I never pay any bills.” Harry's tone had now reached a higher pitch.

“EXactly so, sir—just what your father said, sir, and with such vehemence that I moved toward the door.” Out went the finger again, the insinuating voice keeping up. “And then the five hundred dollars from Mr. Slater—you see, sir, we had all these accounts placed in our hands with the expectation that your father would liquidate at one fell swoop—these were Mr. Combes's very words, sir: 'ONE FELL SWOOP.'” This came with an inward rake of his hand, his fingers grasping an imaginary sickle, Harry's accumulated debts being so many weeds in his way.

“And didn't he? He always has,” demanded the culprit.

“EXactly so, sir—exactly what your father said.”

“Exactly what?”

“That he had heretofore always paid them.”

“Well, then, take them to him!” roared Harry, breaking loose again. “I haven't got anything to do with them, and won't.”

“Your father's PREcise words, sir,” purred Gadgem. “And by the time he had uttered them, sir, I was out of the room. It was here, sir, that the very polite colored man, Alec by name, so I am informed, and of whom I made mention a few moments ago, became of inVALuable assistance—of very GREAT assistance, sir.”

“You mean to tell me that you have seen my father—handed him these bills, and that he has refused to pay them?” Harry roared on.

“I DO, sir.” Gadgem had straightened his withered body now and was boring into Harry's eyes with all his might.

“Will you tell me just what he said?” The boy was still roaring, but the indignant tone was missing.

“He said—you will not be offended, sir—you mean, of course, sir, that you would like me to state exACTly what your father said, proceeding as if I was under oath.” It is indescribable how soft and mellifluous his voice had now become.

Harry nodded.

“He said, sir, that he'd be DAMNED if he'd pay another cent for a hot-headed fool who had disgraced his family. He said, sir, that you were of AGE—and were of age when you contracted these bills. He said, sir, that he had already sent you these accounts two days after he had ordered you from his house. And FInally, sir—I say, finally, sir, because it appeared to me at the time to be conclusive—he said, sir, that he would set the dogs on me if I ever crossed his lot again. HENCE, sir, my appearing three times at your door yesterday. HENCE, sir, my breaking in upon you at this unseemly hour in the morning. I am particular myself, sir, about having my morning meal disturbed; cold coffee is never agreeable, gentlemen—but in this case you must admit that my intrusion is pardonable.”

The boy understood now.

“Come to think of it I have a bundle of papers upstairs tied with a red string which came with my boxes from Moorlands. I threw them in the drawer without opening them.” This last remark was addressed to St. George, who had listened at first with a broad smile on his face, which had deepened to one of intense seriousness as the interview continued, and which had now changed to one of ill-concealed rage.

“Mr. Gadgem,” gritted St. George between his teeth—he had risen from the table during the colloquy and was standing with his back to the mantel, the blood up to the roots of his hair.

“Yes, sir.”

“Lay the packages of bills with the memoranda on my desk, and I will look them over during the day.”

“But, Mr. Temple,” and his lip curled contemptuously—he had had that same trick played on him by dozens of men.

“Not another word, Mr. Gadgem. I said—I—would look—them—over—during—the—day. You've had some dealings with me and know exactly what kind of a man I am. When I want you I will send for you. If I don't send for you, come here to-morrow morning at ten o'clock and Mr. Rutter will give you his answer. Todd, show Mr. Gadgem out.”

“But, Mr. Temple—you forGET that my duty is to—”

“I forget nothing. Todd, show Mr. Gadgem out.”

With the closing of the door behind the agent, St. George turned to Harry. His eyes were snapping fire and his big frame tense with anger. This phase of the affair had not occurred to him—nothing in which money formed an important part ever did occur to him.

“A cowardly piece of business, Harry, and on a par with everything he has done since you left his house. Talbot must be crazy to act as he does. He can't break you down in any other way, so he insults you before his friends and now throws these in your face”—and he pointed to the package of bills where Gadgem had laid it—“a most extraordinary proceeding. Please hand me that list. Thank you.... Now this third item ... this five hundred dollars—did you get that money?”

“Yes—and another hundred the next day, which isn't down,” rejoined the young man, running his eye over the list.

“Borrowed it?”

“Yes, of course—for Gilbert. He got into a card scrape at the tavern and I helped him out. I told my father all about it and he said I had done just right; that I must always help a friend out in a case like that, and that he'd pay it. All he objected to was my borrowing it of a tradesman instead of my coming to him.” It was an age of borrowing and a bootmaker was often better than a banker.

“Well—but why didn't you go to him?” He wanted to get at all the facts.

“There wasn't time. Gilbert had to have the money in an hour, and it was the only place where I could get it.”

“Of course there wasn't time—never is when the stakes are running like that.” St. George folded up the memorandum. He knew something of Talbot's iron will, but he never supposed that he would lose his sense of what was right and wrong in exercising it. Again he opened the list—rather hurriedly this time, as if some new phase had struck him—studied it for a moment, and then asked with an increased interest in his tones:

“Did Gilbert give you back the money you loaned him?”

“Yes—certainly; about a month afterward.” Here at least was an asset.

St. George's face lighted up. “And what did you do with it?”

“Took it to my father and he told me to use it; that he would settle with Mr. Slater when he paid his account;—when, too, he would thank him for helping me out.”

“And when he didn't pay it back and these buzzards learned you had quit your father's house they employed Gadgem to pick your bones.”

“Yes—it seems so; but, Uncle George, it's due them!” exclaimed Harry—“they ought to have their money. I would never have taken a dollar—or bought a thing if I had not supposed my father would pay for them.” There was no question as to the boy's sense of justice—every intonation showed it.

“Of course it's due—due by you, too—not your father; that's the worst of it. And if he refuses to assume it—and he has—it is still to be paid—every cent of it. The question is how the devil is it to be paid—and paid quickly. I can't have you pointed out as a spendthrift and a dodger. No, this has got to be settled at once.”

He threw himself into a chair, his mind absorbed in the effort to find some way out of the difficulty. The state of his own bank account precluded all relief in that direction. To borrow a dollar from the Patapsco on any note of hand he could offer was out of the question, the money stringency having become still more acute. Yet help must be had, and at once. Again he unfolded the slip and ran his eyes over the items, his mind in deep thought, then he added in an anxious tone:

“Are you aware, Harry, that this list amounts to several thousand dollars?”

“Yes—I saw it did. I had no idea it was so much. I never thought anything about it in fact. My father always paid—paid for anything I wanted.” Neither did the young fellow ever concern himself about the supply of water in the old well at Moorlands. His experience had been altogether with the bucket and the gourd: all he had had to do was to dip in.

Again St. George ruminated. It had been many years since he had been so disturbed about any matter involving money.

“And have you any money left, Harry?”

“Not much. What I have is in my drawer upstairs.”

“Then I'll lend you the money.” This came with a certain spontaneity—quite as if he had said to a companion who had lost his umbrella—“Take mine!”

“But have you got it, Uncle George?” asked Harry in an anxious tone.

“No—not that I know of,” he replied simply, but with no weakening of his determination to see the boy through, no matter at what cost.

“Well—then—how will you lend it?” laughed Harry. Money crises had not formed part of his troubles.

“Egad, my boy, I don't know!—but somehow.”

He rang the bell and Todd put in his head. “Todd, go around outside,—see if young Mr. Pawson is in his office below us, present my compliments and say that it will give me great pleasure to call upon him regarding a matter of business.”

“Yes, sah—”

“—And, Todd—say also that if agreeable to him, I will be there in ten minutes.”

Punctually at ten o'clock on the following morning the shrivelled body and anxious face of the agent was ushered by Todd into St. George's presence—Dandy close behind sniffing at his thin knees, convinced that he was a suspicious person. This hour had been fixed by Temple in case he was not sent for earlier, and as no messenger had so far reached the bill collector he was naturally in doubt as to the nature of his reception. He had the same hat in his hand and the same handkerchief—a weekly, or probably a monthly comfort—its dingy red color defrauding the laundry.

“I have waited, sir,” Gadgem began in an unctuous tone, his eyes on the dog, who had now resumed his place on the hearth rug—“waited IMpatiently, relying upon the word and honor of—”

“There—that will do, Gadgem,” laughed St. George good-naturedly. Somehow he seemed more than usually happy this morning—bubbling over, indeed, ever since Todd had brought him a message from the young lawyer in the basement but half an hour before. “Keep that sort of talk for those who like it. No, Todd, you needn't bring Mr. Gadgem a chair, for he won't be here long enough to enjoy it. Now listen,” and he took the memorandum from his pocket. “These bills are correct. Mr. Rutter has had the money and the goods. Take this list which I have signed to my attorney in the office underneath and be prepared to give a receipt in full for each account at twelve o'clock to-morrow. I have arranged to have them paid in full. Good-morning.”

Gadgem stared. He did not believe a word about finding the money downstairs. He was accustomed to being put off that way and had already formulated his next tactical move. In fact he was about to name it with some positiveness, recounting the sort of papers which would follow and the celerity of their serving, when he suddenly became aware that St. George's eyes were fixed upon him and instantly stopped breathing.

“I said good-morning, Mr. Gadgem,” repeated St. George sententiously. There was no mistaking his meaning.

“I heard you, sir,” hesitated the collector—“I heard you diSTINCTly, but in cases of this kind there is—”

St. George swung back the door and stood waiting. No man living or dead had ever doubted the word of St. George Wilmot Temple, not even by a tone of the voice, and Gadgem's was certainly suggestive of a well-defined and most offensive doubt. Todd moved up closer; Dandy rose to his feet, thinking he might be of use. The little man looked from one to the other. He might add an action for assault and battery to the claim, but that would delay its collection.

“Then at TWELVE o'clock, to-morrow, Mr. Temple,” he purred blandly.

“At twelve o'clock!” repeated St. George coldly, wondering which end of the intruder he would grapple when he threw him through the front door and down the front steps.

“I will be here on the stroke of the clock, sir—on the STROKE,” and Gadgem slunk out.

For some minutes St. George continued to walk up and down the room, stooping once in a while to caress the setter; dry-washing his hands; tapping his well-cut waistcoat with his shapely fingers, his thumbs in the arm-holes; halting now and then to stretch himself to the full height of his body. He had outwitted the colonel—taught him a lesson—let him see that he was not the only “hound in the pack,” and, best of all, he had saved the boy from annoyance and possibly from disgrace.

He was still striding up and down the room, when Harry, who had overslept himself as usual, came down to breakfast. Had some friend of his uncle found a gold mine in the back yard—or, better still, had Todd just discovered a forgotten row of old “Brahmin Madeira” in some dark corner of his cellar—St. George could not have been more buoyant.

“Glad you didn't get up any earlier, you good-for-nothing sleepy-head!” he cried in welcoming, joyous tones. “You have just missed that ill-smelling buzzard.”

“What buzzard?” asked Harry, glancing over the letters on the mantel in the forlorn hope of finding one from Kate.

“Why, Gadgem—and that is the last you will ever see of him.”

“Why?—has father paid him?” he asked in a listless way, squeezing Dandy's nose thrust affectionately into his hand—his mind still on Kate. Now that Willits was with her, as every one said, she would never write him again. He was a fool to expect it, he thought, and he sighed heavily.

“Of course he hasn't paid him—but I have. That is, a friend of mine has—or will.”

“You have!” cried Harry with a start. He was interested now—not for himself, but for St. George: no penny of his uncle's should ever go to pay his debts. “Where did the money come from?”

“Never you mind where the money came from. You found it for Gilbert—did he ask you where you got it? Why should you ask me?”

“Well, I won't; but you are mighty good to me, Uncle George, and I am very grateful to you.” The relief was not overwhelming, for the burden of the debt had not been heavy. It was only the sting of his father's refusal that had hurt. He had always believed that the financial tangle would be straightened out somehow.

“No!—damn it!—you are not grateful. You sha'n't be grateful!” cried St. George with a boyish laugh, seating himself that he might fill his pipe the better from a saucer of tobacco on the table. “If you were grateful it would spoil it all. What you can do, however, is to thank your lucky stars that that greasy red pocket-handkerchief will never be aired in your presence again. And there's another thing you can be thankful for now that you are in a thankful mood, and that is that Mr. Poe will be at Guy's to-morrow, and wants to see me.” He had finished filling the pipe bowl, and had struck a match.

The boy's eyes danced. Gadgem, his father, his debts, everything—was forgotten.

“Oh, I'm so glad! How do you know?”

“Here's a letter from him.” (Puff-puff.)

“And can I see him?”

“Of course you can see him! We will have him to dinner, my boy! Here comes Todd with your coffee. Take my seat so I can talk to you while I smoke.”