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