“Excuse me one minute,” said Mr. Angelo, and followed Mary Wells. She ushered him into a boudoir, where he found Lady Bassett seated in an armchair, with her head on her hand, and her eyes fixed sadly on the carpet. She smiled faintly, and said, “Well, what do you wish to say to me?” “It is about Mr. Oldfield. He is clearly incompetent.” “I don't know. I snubbed him, poor man: but if the law is all against us!” “How does he know that? He assumes it because he is prejudiced in favor of the enemy. How does he _know_ they have done _everything_ the Act of Parliament requires? And, if they have, Law is not invincible. When Law defies Morality, it gets baffled, and trampled on in all civilized communities.” “I never heard that before.” “But you would if you had been at Oxford,” said he, smiling. “Ah!” “What we want is a man of genius, of invention; a man who will see every chance, take every chance, lawful or unlawful, and fight with all manner of weapons.” Lady Bassett's eye flashed a moment. “Ah!” said she; “but where can I find such a man, with knowledge to guide his zeal?” “I think I know of a man who could at all events advise you, if you would ask him.” “Ah! Who?” “He is a writer; and opinions vary as to his merit. Some say he has talent; others say it is all eccentricity and affectation. One thing is certain--his books bring about the changes he demands. And then he is in earnest; he has taken a good many alleged lunatics out of confinement.” “Is it possible? Then let us apply to him at once.” “He lives in London; but I have a friend who knows him. May I send an outline to him through that friend, and ask him whether he can advise you in the matter?” “You may; and thank you a thousand times!” “A mind like that, with knowledge, zeal, and invention, must surely throw some light.” “One would think so, dear friend.” “I'll write to-night and send a letter to Greatrex; we shall perhaps get an answer the day after to-morrow.” “Ah! you are not the one to go to sleep in the service of a friend. A writer, did you say? What does he write?” “Fiction.” “What, novels?” “And dramas and all.” Lady Bassett sighed incredulously. “I should never think of going to Fiction for wisdom.” “When the Family Calas were about to be executed unjustly, with the consent of all the lawyers and statesmen in France, one man in a nation saw the error, and fought for the innocent, and saved them; and that one wise man in a nation of fools was a writer of fiction.” “Oh! a learned Oxonian can always answer a poor ignorant thing like me. One swallow does not make summer, for all that.” “But this writer's fictions are not like the novels you read; they are works of laborious research. Besides, he is a lawyer, as well as a novelist.” “Oh, if he is a lawyer!” “Then I may write?” “Yes,” said Lady Bassett, despondingly. “What is to become of Oldfield?”