“Oh, the cunning of this world, the cunning of this world, Roger!” He flung himself into an arm-chair, laughing. Stillford was already seated. “Take a cigarette, Mr Stillford. You want to know whether I’m going to law or not, don’t you? Well, I’m not. Is there anything else you want to know? Oh, by the way, we don’t abstain from the law because we don’t know the law. Permit me--Mr Stillford, solicitor--Mr Roger Wilbraham, of the Middle Temple, Esquire, barrister-at-law. Had I known you were coming, Roger should have worn his wig. No, no, we know the law--but we hate it.” Stillford was jubilant at a substantial gain--the appeal to law lay within the Marchesa’s choice now; and that was in his view a great advantage. But he was legitimately irritated by Lynborough’s sneers at his profession. “So do most of the people who belong to--the people to whom prisons are not strange, Lord Lynborough.” “Apostles--and so on?” asked Lynborough airily. “I hardly recognise your lordship as belonging to that--er--er--category.” “That’s the worst of it--nobody will,” Lynborough admitted candidly. A note of sincere, if whimsical, regret sounded in his voice. “I’ve been trying for fifteen years. Yet some day I may be known as St Ambrose!” His tones fell to despondency again. “St Ambrose the Less, though--yes, I’m afraid the Less. Apostles--even Saints--are much handicapped in these days, Mr Stillford.” Stillford rose to his feet. “You’ve no more to say to me, Lord Lynborough?” “I don’t know that I ever had anything to say to you, Mr Stillford. You must have gathered before now that I intend to use Beach Path.” “My client intends to prevent you.” “Yes?--Well, you’re three able-bodied men down there--so my man tells me--you, and the Colonel, and the Captain. And we’re three up here. It seems to me fair enough.” “You don’t really contemplate settling the matter by personal conflict?” He was half amused, yet genuinely stricken in his habits of thought. “Entirely a question for your side. We shall use the path.” Lynborough cocked his head on one side, looking up at the sturdy lawyer with a mischievous amusement. “I shall harry you, Mr Stillford--day and night I shall harry you. If you mean to keep me off that path, vigils will be your portion. And you won’t succeed.” “I make a last appeal to your lordship. The matter could, I believe, be adjusted on an amicable basis. The Marchesa could be prevailed upon to grant permission----” “I’d just as soon ask her permission to breathe,” interrupted Lynborough. “Then my mission is at an end.” “I congratulate you.” “I beg your pardon?” “Well, you’ve found out the chief thing you wanted to know, haven’t you? If you’d asked it point-blank, we should have saved a lot of time. Good-bye, Mr Stillford. Roger, the bell’s in reach of your hand.” “You’re pleased to be amused at my expense?” Stillford had grown huffy. “No--only don’t think you’ve been clever at mine,” Lynborough retorted placidly.