Messrs. Boothby in Lincoln’s Inn had for very many years been the lawyers of the Stowte family, and probably knew as much about the property as any of the Stowtes themselves. They had not been consulted about the giving away of the bit of land for the chapel purposes, nor had they been instructed to draw up any deed of gift. The whole thing had been done irregularly. The land had been only promised, and not in truth as yet given, and the Puddlehamites, in their hurry, had gone to work and had built upon a promise. The Marquis, when, after the receipt of Mr. Fenwick’s letter, his first rage was over, went at once to the chambers of Messrs. Boothby, and was forced to explain all the circumstances of the case to the senior partner before he could show the clergyman’s wicked epistle. Old Mr. Boothby was a man of the same age as the Marquis, and, in his way, quite as great. Only the lawyer was a clever old man, whereas the Marquis was a stupid old man. Mr. Boothby sat, bowing his head, as the Marquis told his story. The story was rather confused, and for awhile Mr. Boothby could only understand that a dissenting chapel had been built upon his client’s land.

“We shall have to set it right by some scrap of a conveyance,” said the lawyer.

“But the Vicar of the parish claims it,” said the Marquis.

“Claims the chapel, my lord!”

“He is a most pestilent, abominable man, Mr. Boothby. I have brought his letter here.” Mr. Boothby held out his hand to receive the letter. From almost any client he would prefer a document to an oral explanation, but he would do so especially from his lordship. “But you must understand,” continued the Marquis, “that he is quite unlike any ordinary clergyman. I have the greatest respect for the church, and am always happy to see clergymen at my own house. But this is a litigious, quarrelsome fellow. They tell me he’s an infidel, and he keeps—! Altogether, Mr. Boothby, nothing can be worse.”

“Indeed!” said the lawyer, still holding out his hand for the letter.

“He has taken the trouble to insult me continually. You heard how a tenant of mine was murdered? He was murdered by a young man whom this clergyman screens, because,—because,—he is the brother of,—of,—of the young woman.”

“That would be very bad, my lord.”

“It is very bad. He knows all about the murder;—I am convinced he does. He went bail for the young man. He used to associate with him on most intimate terms. As to the sister;—there’s no doubt about that. They live on the land of a person who owns a small estate in the parish.”

“Mr. Gilmore, my lord?”

“Exactly so. This Mr. Fenwick has got Mr. Gilmore in his pocket. You can have no idea of such a state of things as this. And now he writes me this letter! I know his handwriting now, and any further communication I shall return.” The Marquis ceased to speak, and the lawyer at once buried himself in the letter.

“It is meant to be offensive,” said the lawyer.

“Most insolent, most offensive, most improper! And yet the bishop upholds him!”

“But if he is right about the bit of land, my lord, it will be rather awkward.” And as he spoke, the lawyer examined the sketch of the vicarage entrance. “He gives this as copied from the terrier of the parish, my lord.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” said the Marquis.

“You didn’t look at the plan of the estate, my lord?”

“I don’t think we did; but Packer had no doubt. No one knows the property in Bullhampton so well as Packer, and Packer said—”

But while the Marquis was still speaking the lawyer rose, and begging his client’s pardon, went to the clerk in the outer room. Nor did he return till the clerk had descended to an iron chamber in the basement, and returned from thence with a certain large tin box. Into this a search was made, and presently Mr. Boothby came back with a weighty lump of dusty vellum documents, and a manuscript map, or sketch of a survey of the Bullhampton estate, which he had had opened. While the search was being made he had retired to another room, and had had a little conversation with his partner about the weather. “I am afraid the parson is right, my lord,” said Mr. Boothby, as he closed the door.

“Right!”

“Right in his facts, my lord. It is glebe, and is marked so here very plainly. There should have been a reference to us,—there should, indeed, my lord. Packer, and men like him, really know nothing. The truth is, in such matters nobody knows anything. You should always have documentary evidence.”

“And it is glebe?”

“Not a doubt of it, my lord.”

Then the Marquis knew that his enemy had him on the hip, and he laid his old head down upon his folded arms and wept. In his weeping it is probable that no tears rolled down his cheeks, but he wept inward tears,—tears of hatred, remorse, and self-commiseration. His enemy had struck him with scourges, and, as far as he could see at present, he could not return a blow. And he must submit himself,—must restore the bit of land, and build those nasty dissenters a chapel elsewhere on his own property. He had not a doubt as to that for a moment. Could he have escaped the sha............