“Nay, I was only appealing to your professional knowledge,” said the young man, carelessly. “When you speak to me of the profession, of course I necessarily conclude that you are, at least, as well-informed as I am--and this is clear to anybody with half an eye. Mind you, I don’t mean to say that young Livingstone’s claim is weaker than his father’s--you know it is not. I feel indeed that the whole matter is immensely simplified by having a professional man like yourself to deal with--for I don’t presume to suppose that I am telling you any thing that you don’t know already; but possibly--I can’t tell--the young man may not feel it for his interest to push his claims at this moment. It’s for _my_ interest that he should, of course, for it will be a capital case--but we can both wait; however, under the circumstances, I am perfectly justified in asking you to consider whether the little restitution I suggested to you would be the act of a fool or of a wise man.” Melmar had been gazing with a kind of hazy, speechless wrath at the speaker, who passed so jauntily and lightly over this subject, and took his own perfect acquaintance with its right and wrong, for granted, with so much coolness. When Cassilis came to this pause, however, no explosion followed. The florid face grew redder with a bursting fiery fullness, in which even the grizzled red fringes of hair sympathized--but, in spite of himself, Melmar was afraid. His “young friend,” whom he had patronized and despised, seemed somehow to have got him completely in his power--seemed to see into the very thoughts of the old worldling, who thought himself so much wiser than his adversary. He made a pause of consideration, and felt much the reverse of comfortable. The unconcerned air of his visitor, which had relieved him at first, seemed somehow to give greater weight to his words now. If these downright blows were given in play, what should the serious strokes of the same hand be? and Melmar knew very well that the strength of his opponent’s case lay in plain right and justice, while his was only to be held by art and stratagem. While he pondered, a sudden thought struck him--he rose, went to the window, glanced out there for a moment--then to the door, opened it and glanced along the long passage to make sure there were no listeners--then he returned to his chair, and bent towards the young lawyer, who had been watching all his proceedings with a half amused curiosity. “To make an end of all this,” said Melmar, with a very good imitation of impatience, “and because they are relatives of the old family, and friends, and all the rest of it--and to prove that I’m sorry for what took place at Norlaw’s funeral--I’ll tell you what I’ll consent to do--” “Well?” said Cassilis, quietly.