‘Likely or unlikely, it is true, and I have sufficient evidence to prove it, or I should not have broached the subject to you. I have in my possession a certified copy of the entry in the marriage register at St. John’s Church, Didmouth, Devonshire; and five letters in your uncle’s hand, acknowledging Muriel Trevanard as his wife; also a sealed letter from the same, committing her to the care of the late Mr. Tomlin, solicitor, of Seacomb, in the event of her needing that gentleman’s protection during her husband’s absence. Nor do I rely upon documentary evidence alone. The vicar of Didmouth, who married your uncle to Miss Trevanard, is still alive; and the principal witness of the marriage, Muriel’s friend and confidante, is ready to support the claim of Muriel’s daughter should you force her to appeal to the law, instead of seeing, as I hope you will see, the advisability of an equitable compromise. Miss Penwyn has no desire to exact her legal rights. She has empowered me to suggest a fair and honourable alternative.’ Maurice proceeded to give a brief outline of Justina’s case, and to suggest his own idea of an equitable settlement. Churchill sat with folded arms, and gloomy face bent downward listening. This story of Maurice Clissold’s seemed to him, so far, hardly worth serious thought. It was so wildly improbable, so like the dream of a fevered brain, that any claimant should come forward to dispute his hold of wealth and station. Yet he told himself that Clissold was no fool, and would hardly talk of documentary evidence which he was unprepared to produce. On the other hand, this Clissold might be a villain, and the whole business a conspiracy. ‘Let me see your copy of the register, sir,’ Churchill said, authoritatively. Maurice took a paper from his breast-pocket, and laid it on Mr. Penwyn’s desk. Yes. It was formal enough. ‘George Penwyn, bachelor, gentleman, of Penwyn Manor, to Muriel Trevanard, spinster, daughter of Michael Trevanard, farmer, of Borcel End. The witnesses, Maria Barlow, spinster, school-mistress, of Seacomb; and James Pope, clerk, Didmouth.’ If this were a genuine copy of an existing entry there would be no doubt as to the fact of George Penwyn’s marriage. Both gentlemen were too much engrossed at this moment—Churchill pondering the significance of the document in his hand, Maurice watching his countenance as he meditated—to be aware of the opening of a door near the fireplace, a door which fitted into the bookcase, and was masked with dummy books. This door was gently opened, a woman’s face looked in for an instant, and was quickly withdrawn. But the door, although apparently closed, was not shut again. ‘And you pretend that there was issue to this marriage?’ said Churchill. ‘The lady whose claim I am here to assert is the daughter of Mr. George Penwyn, by that marriage.’