Nevertheless, they were exceedingly anxious to know more respecting Miss West, the gay vivacious beauty, whose fame had spread far and wide, whose riches and whose disheartening indifference to the advances of the most eligible _partis_ were alike proverbial. What on earth had she to do with a hard-working barrister like Wynne, who rarely mixed in society? They asked each other this question after they had left Wynne and his client _tête-à-tête_. “Business?” It was confoundedly odd that she should pitch on such an hour, and on such an uncommonly handsome fellow as Wynne for her legal adviser; and the funniest part of it all was, that Wynne was not particularly pleased to see her, and treated her as coolly as if she had been his grand-aunt by marriage! Talking of matters far different from their inmost thoughts brought the trio to Mr. Treherne’s chambers. “Come up, you fellows, and have some devilled bones,” he said hospitably; “the night is young!” Mr. FitzHerbert never turned a deaf ear to such an appeal, but Wynne on this occasion, rather to his friend’s surprise, said, “All right, I’ll come up for a minute,” and sprang up the stairs two steps at a time. “I’m not going to stay,” he said, taking off his hat and standing with his back to the fire, still in his top coat; “but I’ve just wished to have a word with you two fellows. I want to ask you, as a special favour to _me_, to say nothing to any one of having met Miss West in my chambers.” The two guests muttered, “Oh, of course not; certainly not;” but without any great alacrity. This demand was decidedly a blow, for they were only human, and were looking forward to describing the scene with pleasurable anticipation. “When I ask you to do me this favour,” he resumed, as coolly as if he were speaking in court, “I think it only fair to take you into my confidence, and to tell you our secret. Miss West and I were married nearly two years ago. _She is my wife._” And putting on his hat, he nodded good night with the utmost _sangfroid_, and ere they could get out one single syllable, much less question, he was already at the bottom of the last flight of stairs. CHAPTER XXVII. A PROMISE POSTPONED. “A telegram for you, sir,” said one of the clerks to Laurence Wynne, the following morning. Telegrams were a common arrival; but instinctively he felt that there was something unusual about this one, as he tore it open and glanced over it. “My father is dangerously ill. Impossible to fulfil promise. Writing.” “I knew it,” he said, as he crumpled the paper in his hand, then smoothed it and read it over again. “No,” to the clerk, who had a bet on an imminent big race, and had gathered alarm from Mr. Wynne’s expression; “no, Stevens; there is no answer.” * * * * *