"Documentary evidence," said the old man, "that's it; documentary evidence," and he took snuff loudly. "Marriage stiffikits, baptism registers, and so on. Let's see; I don't think there was any regular registration in those days. Now then, to begin with, sir. Where were your father and mother married?--that is, if they were," muttered the old man in what was meant for an undertone, but Septimus heard the words. "O yes," he said quietly, "they were married in the City." "Very good," said Matt. "Then suppose we get a copy of the marriage stiffikit, sworn to and witnessed, how then?" "Well, that proves the marriage," said Septimus. "To be sure," said Matt; "but then you'll find he bases his claim upon your being born before. You don't think he denies that your father and mother were married? He don't, does he?" "No," said Septimus wearily, as he opened a pocket-book and drew out a frayed and broken letter, which had separated here and there in the folds from frequent reference. "You are right, Matt," he said, after reading a few lines. "The marriage register would be no good." "Yes, it would," said Matt; "it's documentary evidence, and it will be one brick in the tower we want to build up; so don't you get sneezing at it because it ain't everything. It will be one thing; and so far so good, when we get it. You see it's a ticklish thing, and before you put it in a solicitor's hands--a respectable solicitor's hands, for cheap law's the dearest thing in Lincoln's-inn--you must have something to show him. Now, so far so good, only recollect your uncle's on firm ground, while as yet you're nowhere. Now say we go to a good solicitor. `Were you born in wedlock?' says he. `Yes,' says you. `Now then,' says he, `prove it.'" Septimus sighed, and began to wonder whether his uncle was right. "Now, then," said Matt, "family Bible with birth in, eh?" "We had one, full of plates," said Septimus, recalling the old Sunday afternoons, when he had leaned over the table, amusing himself with the engravings; "but there were no entries in it, only my grandfather's name. I fancy, though, now you mention it, my father had a little pocket-Bible with some entries in, but I never took particular notice." "Rotten reed--a rotten reed," said the old man. "You are not sure; and even if you were, your uncle's been foxy enough to hunt the place over and over, and that book's gone up the chimney in smoke, or under the grate in ashes, long enough ago. No will, you say?" "Not that I could hear of," said Septimus.