"It's about the right-of-way--I mean the right of fishing in a stream down in Buckinghamshire. They've spent ever so much money over it, it's worrying father to death, but he _won't_ give it up. I thought perhaps if _you_ spoke to him you might have some influence with him." "I'd be delighted to do anything," said Leavesley. "What is this man Bevan like?" "Frightfully rich, and a beast." "That's comprehensive anyhow," said Leavesley. "Most, most--most clear and comprehensive," concurred Mr Verneede. "I hate him!" said Fanny, her eyes flashing, "and I wish he and his old fish stream were--boiled." "That would certainly solve the difficulty," said Leavesley, scratching the side of his hand meditatively. "And his beastly old solicitor too," continued the girl, tenderly lifting a lady-bird, that had somehow got into the studio and on to her knee, on the point of her finger. "Isn't he beautiful?" "Most," assented Leavesley, gazing with an artist's delight at the white tapering finger on which the painted and polished insect was balancing preparatory to flight. "Who is his solicitor, by the way?" "Mr Hancock of Southampton Row." "Mr Who?" "Hancock." "Why, he's my uncle." "Oh!" cried Fanny, "I _am_ sorry." "That he's my uncle?" "No--that I said that----" "Oh, that doesn't matter. I've often wished him boiled. It's awfully funny, though, that he should be this man Bevan's solicitor--very." "I have an idea," said Verneede, leaning forward in his chair and pressing the points of his fingers together. "My dear young lady, may I make a suggestion?" "Yes," said Fanny. "Two suggestions, I should have said." "Fire away," cut in Leavesley. "Well, my dear young lady, if my advice were asked I would first of all say 'dam the stream.'" "Verneede!" cried Leavesley. "What are you saying?" "Father's always damning it," replied Miss Lambert with a laugh, "but it doesn't seem to do much good." "My other suggestion," said Verneede, taken aback at the supposed beaver-like attributes of Mr Lambert, "is this, go in your own person to the friend of my friend Leavesley. I mean the uncle of my friend. Go to Mr Hancock, go to him frankly, fearlessly, tell him the tale you have told us; tell it to him with your own lips, in your own manner, with your own charm; say to him 'You are killing my father--cease.' Speak to him in your own way, smile at him----" "_That's_ not a bad idea," said Miss Lambert, turning to Leavesley, who was seated mouth open, aghast at this lunatic proposition. "That's a _splendid_ idea, and I'll _do_ it." "Say to him 'Cease!'" continued Verneede, speaking in an inspired voice. "Say to him----" "Oh, shut up!" cried Leavesley, shaken out of politeness. "Do you know what you're talking about? Hancock is Bevan's solicitor." "That's just why I'm going to him," said Miss Lambert. "But it's against all the rules of everything. I'm not sure that it wouldn't be considered tampering with--um--Justice."