“Then Guy Markenmore did marry Myra Halliwell?” said Mr. Fransemmery. “He did!—when they both left here,” answered Chilford. “And they lived very quietly, Clapham or Tooting or Wandsworth way, at first. Later, she lived there alone—he was a good deal away from her, and had a West End flat. She died—but there’s the boy. Quillamane knows the whole thing—has all the papers, marriage certificates, birth certificates, everything: he has been in Guy’s confidence all along. When the child’s mother died, the child was placed in the hands of Quillamane’s sister, who’s now with him at the Court—they’re all there: I took them up, myself.” “And Harry Markenmore and his sister—how did they take it?” asked Mr. Fransemmery. “To tell you the truth, they took it like bricks!” replied Chilford. “They didn’t turn a hair, either of ’em, and to do them justice, they immediately began to make much of the youngster. But I say!—I reckon I know who’ll be furious about it! Why, I heard that Harry Markenmore has secretly married Poppy Wrenne, with her mother’s knowledge!” “That’s so!” said Mr. Fransemmery. “The marriage took place in London, three months ago, in the mother’s presence.” “Then Madam Braxfield will be the angriest woman in Christendom when she hears of this!” exclaimed Chilford. “Of course, she was hoping that Guy was dead long since, and nobody’d ever heard of him for seven years, and that Harry would get the title, and Poppy be my Lady Markenmore! Well—that’s knocked on the head! Queer business! and Quillamane tells me there may be more. It turns out that Guy, who’d made a regular pot of money in his business doings, all left, of course, to the youngster by a recent will, wanted to give Markenmore Court absolutely to his brother and sister, and was going to take steps to hand it over as soon as he succeeded. But the estates are entailed! This child gets everything! Interesting, isn’t it, Fransemmery, from a lawyer’s point of view?” “From that point—very,” agreed Mr. Fransemmery. “Complicated, too.” He was wondering if Chilford wanted to expatiate on the intricacies of the situation, and hoping he didn’t, for he himself felt in no humour for discussing legal questions. But Chilford presently went away and Blick, after a whispered word with Mr. Fransemmery, went with him. Together, they walked towards the village, on the outskirts of which Chilford lived. “Any luck in your line yet, young man?” asked Chilford, before they parted. “Precious little!” replied Blick. “As mysterious a case as ever I heard of!” exclaimed Chilford. “Not a ray of light on it!” Blick left him at the cross-roads and turned into the Sceptre. Remembering Crawley, and not averse to a friendly chat before retiring, he looked into the bar-parlour and asked for him. Grimsdale, reading a paper behind his bar, shook his head.