"Unfortunately, I am straddling the water shed at this moment. I have made a very unpleasant discovery, Abingdon, and I am glad we are alone to-night--we can speak freely. Some people named Sharpe & Smith wrote to me yesterday." "I know them--an old-established firm of solicitors." "Well, they urged me to give them an appointment on a private matter, and I did so. They began by trying to cross-examine me, but that was an abject failure. Seeing that whatever they had to say must stand on its own legs, they told me an extraordinary story. It appears that at a place called The Hall, Beltham, Devon, lives an elderly baronet, named Sir Philip Morland." "Morland! Philip Morland!" "Ah, you remember the name! It was given to a young derelict who once figured in the dock before you on a charge of being in unlawful possession----" "The matter is not serious, then?" "It is very serious. The real Philip Morland is my uncle." "Do you mean to say that you learned this fact for the first time to-day from Sharpe & Smith?" Philip laughed. By this time they were seated at the table, and their talk depended to a certain extent on the comings and goings of servants. At a dinner _en famille_, the presence of a ponderous butler and solemn lackeys was dispensed with. "Oh, you lawyers!" he cried. "That's a nice sort of leading question. But, marvelous as it may seem to you, I must answer 'Yes.' My mother's maiden name was Morland. Her brother was much older than she, and it appears the dear woman married to please herself, thereby mortally offending the baronet." "Why the 'offense'?" "Because my father's social position was not equal to that of the aristocratic Morlands. Moreover, her brother had an accident in his youth which rendered him irritable and morose. From being a pleasant sort of man; which, indeed, he must have been did he share aught of my mother's nature--he grew into a misanthrope, and gave his life to the classification of Exmoor beetles. He treated my mother very badly, so vilely that even she, dear soul, during her married life held no further communication with him, and never mentioned him to me by name. Now, one day on Exmoor he found a lady who also was devoted to beetles. At least, she knew all that the Encyclopædia Britannica could teach her. She was a poor but handsome widow." "Ah!" "It is delightful to talk with you, Abingdon. Your monosyllables help the narrative along. Sir Philip married the widow. She brought him a son, aged five. There were no children born of my uncle's marriage." "Oh!" "When poverty overtook my dear one, she so far obliterated a cruel memory as to appeal, not once, but many times, to the human coleopterus of Exmoor, but she was invariably frozen off either by Lady Louisa Morland or by Messrs. Sharpe & Smith." "Did they admit this?" "By no means. I am telling you the facts. I am still on top of the Pyrenees." "Then how did you ascertain the facts?"