Blanche had turned to the railings round the interior of Portman Square, and halted there, apparently looking at the shrubs. Her eyes were full of tears. "On the other hand, Charles, you do not know, you cannot guess, what I have to bear--what a misery it makes of my life." "Are you _sure_ of the facts that make the misery?" "Why, of course I am." "I think not, Blanche. I think you are mistaken." She turned to me in surprise. "But I _can't_ be mistaken," she said. "How can I be? If Lord Level does not go to Marshdale to--to--to see people, what does he go for?" "He may go for something quite different. My dear, I have more confidence in your husband than you have, and I think you are wrong. I must be off; I've not another moment; but these are my last words to you, Blanche.--Take no action. Be still. _Do nothing._" By half-past four o'clock, the most pressing of my work was over for the day, and then I took a cab to Lincoln's Inn to see Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar. He had often said to me, good old uncle that he was: "Come to me always, Charles, when you are in any legal doubt or difficulty, or deem that my opinion may be of use to you." I was in one of those difficulties now. Some remarkably troublesome business had been laid before me by a client; I could not see my way in it at all, and was taking it to Serjeant Stillingfar. The old chambers were just as they used to be; as they were on the day which the reader has heard of, when I saw them for the first time. Running up the stairs, there sat a clerk at the desk in the narrow room, where young Lake, full of impudence, had sat that day, Mr. Jones's empty place beside it now, as it was then. "Is the Serjeant in?" I asked the clerk. "No, sir; he's not out of Court yet. Mr. Jones is in." I went on to the inner room. Old Jones, the Serjeant's own especial clerk, was writing at his little desk in the corner. Nothing was changed; not even old Jones himself. He was not, to appearance, a day older, and not an ounce bigger. Lake used to tell him he would make his fortune if he went about the country in a caravan and called himself a consumptive lamp-post. "My uncle is not back from Court, Graham says," I observed to the clerk, after shaking hands. "Not yet," he answered. "I don't think he'll be long. Sit down, Mr. Strange." I took the chair I had taken that first day years ago, and waited. Mr. Jones finished the writing he was about, arranged his papers, and then came and stood with his back to the fire, having kept his quill in his hand. It must be a very hot day indeed which did not see a fire in that grate. "If the Serjeant is not back speedily, I think I must open my business to you, and get your opinion, Mr. Jones," I said. "I dare say you could give me one as well as he." "Some complicated case that you can't quite manage?" he rejoined.