"What you say is utterly absurd," urged Chattaway; the long explanation, which Mr. Peterby had given openly and candidly, having afforded him time to recover somewhat of his fears and his temper. "I can take upon myself most positively to assert that no will or codicil was made, or attempted to be made, by Squire Trevlyn, subsequently to the one on which I inherit. Your firm drew that up." "I know we did," replied the lawyer. "But that does not prove that none was drawn up after it." "But I tell you there was not any. I am certain upon the point." "Well, it was the only conclusion we could come to," rejoined Mr. Peterby. "This Mr. Daw must have some grounds for urging the thing on; he wouldn't be so stupid as to do so if he had none." "He has none," said Chattaway. "Ah, but I am sure he has. But for being convinced of this, do you suppose I should have come to you now, asking you to give up an estate which you have so long enjoyed? I assure you I came as much in your interests as in his. If there is anything in existence by which you can be disturbed, it is only fair you should know of it." Fair! In Mr. Chattaway's frame of mind, he could scarcely tell what was fair and what was not fair. The interview was prolonged, but it brought forth no satisfactory conclusion. Perhaps none could be expected. Mr. Peterby took his departure, impressed with the conviction that the present owner of Trevlyn Hold would retain possession to the end, contesting it inch by inch; and as he walked down the avenue he asked himself whether he had not been induced to enter upon a foolish errand, in coming to suggest that it should be voluntarily resigned. The master of Trevlyn Hold watched him away, and then opened the breakfast-room door. "Where's Rupert?" he inquired, not seeing Rupert there. "Rupert?" answered Mrs. Chattaway, looking up. "I think he has gone to Blackstone. He wished me good morning; and I saw him walk down the avenue." All things seemed to be against Mr. Chattaway. Here was Rupert out of sight now; it was hard to say where he might have gone, or what mischief he might be up to. As he turned from the door, Cris Chattaway's horse--the unlucky new one which had damaged the dog-cart--was brought up, and Cris appeared, prepared to mount him. "Where are you going, Cris?" "Nowhere in particular this morning," answered Cris. "I have a nasty headache, and a canter may take it away." "Then I'll ride your horse to Blackstone," returned Mr. Chattaway. "Alter the stirrups, Sam." "Why, where's your own horse?" cried Cris, with a blank look. "In the stable," shortly returned Chattaway.