“Detail, my dear sir, detail!” said Mr. Fazakerly, “they are matters of principle. If letters like these were to be accepted as affecting the succession to a great property, nobody would be safe. How can I tell who this ‘J. M.’ was? It might be anybody--nobody. She may have written these letters at random altogether. And, besides, there is not a tittle of evidence to connect you with ‘J. M.’ Even supposing the whole correspondence perfectly genuine, which is a thing requiring proof in the first place, how am I to know--how is any one to know--that you are the child referred to? There is, the contrary, everything against it. You yourself jump at a conclusion. You say you are not like the Ardens, and that your father was unkind to you, and from these two facts you arrive at the astounding conclusion that you are not Mr. Arden’s son. Mr. Edgar, I do not wish to be uncivil, but there is nothing in it. We cannot decide such a question on evidence so slight---- God bless me! what is that?” The sound was startling enough; but it was only a knock, though an emphatic and determined one, at the door. Edgar rose to open it, and found Wilkins outside endeavouring to hold back an unlooked for visitor. “She would come, sir,” said Wilkins in trouble---- “Is it you, Mrs. Murray?” said Edgar, startled he scarcely knew why; yet somehow not feeling her presence inappropriate. “I am very busy at this moment. I hope Jeanie is not worse----” She made no attempt to enter the room; but standing outside in the imperfect light, looked anxiously in his face. “I came because I couldna help it,” she said slowly, “because I was concerned in my mind about yours and you.” “That was kind,” he said with a smile. He opened the door wide, and revealed her standing on the threshold--a dark, commanding figure. “We are busy about very important business,” said Edgar; “but still, if you have anything to say to me--if Jeanie is worse----” “Jeanie is better, or I would not have left her,” said the Scotchwoman; and then she put her hand suddenly upon his arm, and drew him towards her. “It’s you I am troubled about,” she said suddenly, with the hoarseness of great emotion. “I’ve never got you out of my mind since you said you were in trouble. Oh, my bonnie lad! I have no right to speak, but my heart is in sore pain. Oh, if I could but be of some service to you!” Edgar never knew how it was--perhaps some trick of words like something he had recently seen--perhaps the passion in her voice--perhaps a sudden intuition, a touch of nature, warning him of things unknown and unseen. Suddenly he changed the position of affairs, put his hand on her arm, and drew her into the room. “Come,” he said, “I want you. Don’t hesitate any longer; I have a question to ask you.” He had to exercise almost a little force to bring her into the room. She stopped upon the threshold, resisting the pressure of his hand. “No,” she said, “no before these strange folk; it was for you I came, and you alone.”