Mr. Fransemmery coughed—a short, dry, embarrassed cough—and Mrs. Braxfield looked at him, suddenly and sharply. She had detected, or fancied she had detected, some meaning in that cough. “What now?” she asked, a note of impatience in her voice. “What’s that mean, Mr. Fransemmery? I know you’re a lawyer, though you don’t practise it—are you implying that my daughter isn’t Lady Markenmore?” “If her husband is Sir Harry Markenmore, ma’am, your daughter is certainly Lady Markenmore,” replied Mr. Fransemmery calmly. “But—is he?” Mrs. Braxfield’s rosy cheeks turned pale. Blick, who was watching her closely, saw a sudden compression of her lips; he saw, too, an involuntary, mechanical lifting of her hand, upward. But the colour came back as she turned on Mr. Fransemmery. “Whatever do you mean?” she demanded with an awkward attempt at an incredulous laugh. “Sir Harry! Of course, he’s Sir Harry! His father’s dead—his brother’s dead——” “Supposing his brother left a son?” said Mr. Fransemmery, in quiet, level tones. “What then?” Mrs. Braxfield turned paler than before. And now Blick, keenly alive to the new situation and possibilities, saw that she was really alarmed. She stared silently at Mr. Fransemmery—stared and stared, and still remained silent. And Blick spoke, looking at the elder man. “You wouldn’t say that unless you’d some grounds for saying it,” he observed. “Have you? Because, if so, I’d like to know. It’s my duty to get all the information I can about Guy Markenmore.”