NO PROCEEDINGS! At Cyril Maxon's chambers in the Temple--very pleasant chambers they were, with a view over a broad sweep of the river--the day began in the usual fashion. At half-past nine Mr. Gibbons, the clerk, arrived; at a quarter to ten the diligent junior, who occupied the small room and devilled for the King's Counsel, made his punctual appearance. At ten, to the stroke of the clock, Maxon himself came in. His movements were leisurely; he had a case in the paper--an important question of demurrage--but it was not likely to be reached before lunch. He bade Mr. Gibbons good morning, directed that the boy should keep a watch on the progress of the court to which his case was assigned, passed into his own room, and sat down to open his letters. These disposed of, he had a couple of opinions to write, with time left for a final run through his brief, aided by the diligent junior's note. Half an hour later Mr. Gibbons opened the door. Maxon waved him back impatiently. "I'm busy, Gibbons. Don't disturb me. We can't be on in court yet?" "No, sir. It's a gentleman to see you. Very urgent business, he says." "No, no, I tell you I'm busy." "He made it a particular favour. In fact, he seems very much upset--he says it's private business." He glanced at a card he carried. "It's a Mr. Ledstone, sir." "Oh," said Maxon. His lips shut a little tighter as he took up a letter which lay beside the legal papers in front of him. "Ledstone?" The letter was signed "Winifred Ledstone." "Yes, sir." "What aged man?" "Oh, quite elderly, sir. Stout, and grey 'air." The answer dispelled an eccentric idea which had entered Maxon's head. If this couple so politely informed him of their doings, they might even be capable of paying him a call! "Well, show him in." He shrugged his shoulders with an air of disgust. Stout and grey-haired (as Mr. Gibbons had observed), yet bearing a noticeable likeness to his handsome son, Mr. Ledstone made a very apologetic and a very flustered entrance. Maxon bowed without rising; Gibbons set a chair and retired. "I must beg a thousand pardons, Mr. Maxon, but this morning I--I received a letter--as I sat at breakfast, Mr. Maxon, with Mrs. Ledstone and my daughter. It's terrible!" "Are you the father of Mr. Godfrey Ledstone?" "Yes, sir. My boy Godfrey--I've had a letter from him. Here it is." "Thank you, but I'm already in possession of what your son has done. I've heard from Mrs. Maxon. I have her letter here." "They're mad, Mr. Maxon! Mean to make it all public! What are we to do? What am I to say to Mrs. Ledstone and my daughter?" "You must really take your own course about that." "And my poor boy! He's been a good son, and his mother's devoted to him, and----" Cyril Maxon's wrath found vent in one of those speeches for which his wife had a pet name. "I don't see how the fact that your son has run away with my wife obliges, or even entitles, me to interfere in your family affairs, Mr. Ledstone."