For more than two hours he argued the case with himself in every possible light, and then, with an expression strong as iron upon his marble face, and eyes that glowed with a relentless purpose, he drew his chair again to the table, sat down, unfolded the papers he had brought with him, and for another hour studied them intently. Earle’s lawyer—though himself a successful lawyer, he yet deemed that he needed maturer judgment than his own upon this case, and in a strange country, and so had sought one of the best—had prepared a clear and succinct account of Marion Vance’s whole history, as related to him by his client, from the time of her leaving her home to visit her friends at Rye, until her death. This, with the certificate of marriage, and the extracts from the old rector’s journal, and the sexton’s tale, made everything so plain that Paul Tressalia could not doubt the truth of what he read. He did not for a moment question Earle Wayne’s identity, as many might have done, and seize this as a weapon with which to fight him. That he was the son of Marion Vance seemed to him a self-evident fact. He resembled the former marquis in form, in his proud bearing, his clear-cut, Roman features, his grand and noble head. Marion had resembled her mother, but the blood of the Vance race showed itself clearly enough in Earle, and Paul had recognized it at once upon beholding him. The only point he had been at all inclined to doubt was the validity of the marriage. But this point was established now, if the lawyer’s statement was correct, and the extracts _bona fide_; and that could be easily ascertained by comparing the signatures upon the certificate with the writing in the rector’s diary. “I shall go and read that account for myself, and if all this is true, what shall I do?” the sorely-tried man asked himself for the hundredth time. And then, as his mind leaped forward into the future again, and he saw Earle established in the halls of his ancestors, proud, prosperous, and happy, with Editha Dalton as his wife, and sunny-haired, merry-hearted children playing about them, he covered his face, and writhing with pain, groaned again. Then a miserable temptation beset him; his rebellious heart refusing to bear patiently the crushing burdens imposed upon it. “Possession is nine points in law—hold on to the Wycliffe estates with a grasp of iron as long as your strength holds out—defy this new and hitherto unknown claimant until the very last,” whispered the evil spirit within him. “What good would it do? He must win in the end,” he opposed. “But you can keep him out of it for years, perhaps, and all the while enjoy the luxuries you have so fondly believed your own. He has won _her_ love away from you; it is not fair that he should have everything and you nothing.”