“That’s all very well, Mr. Fransemmery,” she said after a pause. “You’re a lawyer, and ought to know! But it’s all ifs and buts! If, as you say, Guy Markenmore married Myra Halliwell, and if they had a child, a son, and if that son’s alive—well, then, of course, he succeeds his father—or his grandfather, for as far as I’m aware, there’s nobody knows which died first, Sir Anthony or his elder son—in the title and estates. But—it’s all if!—if—if—if! I don’t believe Guy Markenmore ever married that girl—not I! He may have taken her away with him, and they may have lived together in London, and there may be a child—but all that doesn’t prove any marriage, Mr. Fransemmery!” “What about the inscription on the tombstone, Mrs. Braxfield?” suggested Mr. Fransemmery. “My informant saw it!—and I take Margaret Hilson to be a truthful woman.” “I’m not saying anything against Margaret Hilson,” retorted Mrs. Braxfield. “A decent enough woman! And I don’t deny that she may have seen such an inscription. But that proves nothing. Anybody could so describe anybody else—especially in a London cemetery, and who’d be the wiser! There’ll have to be more evidence than that forthcoming, Mr. Fransemmery, before it’s proved that all you’ve told is true—marriage lines, and birth certificate, and so on.” “All that will doubtless be brought forward, ma’am,” replied Mr. Fransemmery. “We shall hear more, I’m convinced—much more! Somebody must know.” “And you say you advised Margaret Hilson to go and tell this tale to Lawyer Chilford?” asked Mrs. Braxfield. “At once?” “At once!” answered Mr. Fransemmery. “Matters of that sort can’t be allowed to wait. I think Margaret Hilson will already have seen Mr. Chilford—she spoke of going down to his house early this evening.” “Then they’ll know at the Court,” observed Mrs. Braxfield with a frown. “Chilford would be sure to go there and tell them as soon as he got to know.” “They may know—by now,” asserted Mr. Fransemmery. “But whether they know tonight or tomorrow, Mrs. Braxfield, what is certain is that this matter will have to be fully investigated. And if I may give you a little advice, ma’am, in the capacity of a neighbour who wishes you well, I should counsel you to wait a little before you send your daughter to Markenmore Court as Lady Markenmore. She may, you know, be only Mrs. Harry Markenmore. Count twenty, ma’am!” With this Mr. Fransemmery, nodding at Mrs. Braxfield with the warning expression of a sage counsellor, rose to take his leave; his Airedale terrier, hitherto sleeping with one eye open under the table, rose too; accompanied by Blick they sallied out into the night; dark, save for the light of stars, for the moon had not yet risen. In silence they threaded the garden paths of Woodland Cottage and emerged upon the open hill-side. “Queer revelations!” muttered Blick at last as they paced slowly across the close-cropped turf. “I gather that you believe this story about Guy Markenmore’s marriage?”