He looked at a railway time-table, and found that he would have just time enough to catch the next up train from Seacomb, a slowish train, not reaching London till late in the evening. ‘I will go up to town and see Pergament,’ he said to himself, as he touched the bell. ‘Tell them to bring round the dog-cart at once. I shall want Hunter.’ ‘Any particular horse, sir?’ ‘Yes, Wallace.’ Wallace was the fastest horse in the stable—always excepting the Squire’s favourite, Tarpan, which had never been degraded by harness. While the dog-cart was being got ready, Churchill wrote to his wife, ‘MY DEAREST, ‘I am going to London to inquire into this business. Be calm, be brave, as befits my noble wife. ‘Your own till death, ‘C. P.’ This brief note addressed and sealed, the Squire went upstairs to his dressing-room, crammed a few things into his travelling bag, and went down to the porch with the bag in his hand, just as the dog-cart drove up. Wallace, a big, deep-chested bay, in admirable condition, fresh and eager for the start; the groom breathless, having dressed himself against time. Churchill took the reins, and the light vehicle was soon spinning along that well-made road with which the Squire of Penwyn had improved his property. Less than an hour, and Mr. Penwyn was seated in a railway carriage on his way to London. He was at Mr. Pergament’s office early next morning; indeed, more than half an hour before the arrival of that gentleman, who came in at ten o’clock, fresh and sleek of aspect, with a late tea-rosebud in the buttonhole of his glossy blue coat. Great was the solicitor’s astonishment at beholding Churchill. ‘My dear Mr. Penwyn, this _is_ a surprise. One does not expect to see a man of your standing in town in the dead season. Indeed, even I, a humble working bee in the great hive, have been thinking of getting as far as Aix-les-Bains, or Spa. But you are not looking well. You look careworn—fagged.’ ‘I have reason to look so,’ answered Churchill; and then explained the motive of his journey. He told Mr. Pergament all that Clissold had told him, without reserve, with a wonderful precision and clearness. The lawyer listened intently, and with gravest concern. But before he said a word in reply, Mr. Pergament unlocked a tin case inscribed ‘Penwyn,’ took out a document, and read it from the first line to the last. ‘What is that?’ asked Churchill. ‘A copy of your grandfather’s will. I want to be quite sure how you stand as regards this claimant.’ ‘Well?’ ‘I am sorry to say that the will is dead against you. If this person can be proved to be the daughter of George Penwyn, she would take the estate, under your grandfather’s will. There is no doubt of that.’ ‘But how is she to prove her identity with the child said to be born at Borcel End, and whose birth was made such a secret?’