One day he was sitting alone in his library thinking of this—and a magnificent room, be it known, was this library at Wycliffe, furnished with ebony, upholstered in olive, green, and gold. The rich ebony bookcase, inlaid with pearl and precious woods, reached from ceiling to floor, and were filled with countless volumes, each collection bound in uniform covers. It had been the pride of the previous marquis’ heart, his one solace and comfort, after his bitter trouble came upon him, and he had spent the greater part of his life there among his choice books. And it seemed likely also to be the resort of Paul Tressalia, for here he brought himself and his troubles, and, locked within his fort, no one dared to intrude; and, as he sat there one morning thinking bitterly of what might have been, a servant came to the door and knocked for admittance. With a shrug and frown of impatience, he arose and went to the door, where he was handed a card. It bore the name of a noted lawyer from London—“Archibald Faxon.” “Show him in,” the young marquis said, with a weary sigh at being obliged to see any one, and wondering what this noted stranger could want of him. The Hon. Archibald Faxon soon made his appearance—a wiry, sharp-featured man, with a keen, restless eye that was capable of reading a man through almost instantly—any one would have known he was a lawyer, and a successful one, too, merely to look at him. The young marquis greeted him with a show of cordiality, and then politely waited for him to state his business. He was not long in coming to the point. “I fear I have come to you upon a very unpleasant errand,” he said, suavely, and yet with an appearance of regret in his manner. “Indeed!” was Paul Tressalia’s indifferent reply. It did not appear to him that anything could move him after what he had already suffered. “Yes, your lordship; I have to present to you the claims of another to this property of Wycliffe, and all other properties connected with it.” Paul Tressalia regarded the man with almost stupid wonder for a moment. A more ridiculous assertion, it struck him, could not have been made by the most witless fool in the kingdom. “Sir, I do not understand you,” he managed to say, at last. The noted Mr. Faxon very deliberately and distinctly repeated his statement. “Are you aware how very absurd such an assertion sounds, Mr. Faxon?” Paul Tressalia asked, with curling lips. “Why, I am the only living representative of the whole family, and what you assert is simply preposterous.” “Not so much so as you may suppose,” returned the lawyer, calmly. Mr. Tressalia began to grow rather red in the face at this; he could not exactly make out whether the lawyer meant to insult him or not; his manner was courteous, but what he said was such an unheard of proposition that he was at a loss to comprehend it.