Natt pushed into the room, his cap in one hand, a letter in the other. He had knocked twice, and none had heard. "The post, sir; one letter for Master Paul." "Good lad!" Drayton clutched it with a cry of delight. "But my father had no Scotch domicile," said Hugh, with apparent composure. "Oh, but he had," said Drayton, tearing open his envelope. "He was a Scotsman born," said Bonnithorne, taking another document from Drayton's hand. "See, this is his register. Odd, isn't it?" Hugh Ritson's eyes flashed. He looked steadily into the face of the lawyer, then he took the paper. The next moment he crushed it in his palm and flung it out of the window. "I shall want proof both of your facts and your law," he said. "Eh, and welcome," said Drayton, shouting in his agitation. "Listen to this," and he proceeded to read. "Wait! From whom?" asked Hugh Ritson. "Some pettifogger?" "The solicitor-general," said Bonnithorne. "Is that good enough?" asked Drayton, tauntingly. "Go on," said Hugh, rapping the table with his finger-tips. Drayton handed the letter to the lawyer. "Do you read it," he said; "I ain't flowery. I'm a gentleman, and--" He stopped suddenly and tramped the floor, while Bonnithorne read: "If there is no reason to suppose the father lost his Scotch domicile, the son is legitimate. If the husband recognized his wife in registering his son's birth, the law of Scotland would presume that there was a marriage, but whether of ceremony or consent would be quite indifferent." There was a pause, Drayton took the letter from the lawyer's hands, folded it carefully, and put it in his fob-pocket. Then he peered into Hugh Ritson's face with a leer of triumph. Bonnithorne had slunk aside. The guests were silent. "D'ye hear?" said Drayton, "the son is legitimate." He gloated over the words, and tapped his pocket as he repeated them. "What d'ye say to it, eh?" At first Hugh Ritson struggled visibly for composure, and in an instant his face was like marble. Drayton came close to him. "You were going to give me the go-by, eh? Turn me out-o'-doors, eh? Damme, it's my turn now, so it is!" So saying, Drayton stepped to the door and flung it open. "This house is mine," he said; "go, and be damned to you!" At this unexpected blow, Hugh Ritson beat the ground with his foot. He looked round at the strangers, and felt like a wretch who was gagged and might say nothing. Then he halted to where Drayton stood with outstretched arm. "Let me have a word with you in private," he said in a voice that was scarcely audible. Drayton lifted his hand, and his fist was clinched. "Not a syllable!" he said. His accent was brutal and frenzied. Hugh Ritson's nostrils quivered, and his eyes flashed. Drayton quailed an instant, and burst into a laugh.