Two hours later Maurice Clissold was at the gate of Penwyn Manor. The girl Elspeth admitted him. She had bound up her coarse black hair, which had been rough and wild as a mustang’s mane when he last saw her, and wore a neat stuff gown and a clean white muslin cap, instead of the picturesque half gipsy costume she had worn on that former occasion. This at least was a concession to Mrs. Penwyn’s tastes, and argued that even Elspeth’s impish nature had been at last brought under Madge’s softening influence.

‘Anything amiss with your grandmother?’ asked Maurice, surprised at not seeing that specimen of the Meg Merrilies tribe.

‘Yes, sir, she’s very ill.’

‘What is the matter with her?’

‘Bilious fever,’ answered the girl, curtly; and Maurice passed on. He had no leisure now to concern himself about Rebecca Mason, though he had in no wise forgotten those curious facts which made her presence at Penwyn Manor a mystery.

There were more dead leaves drifting about than on his last visit, and the advance of Autumn had made itself obvious in decay, which all the industry of gardeners could not conceal. The pine groves were strewn with fallen cones. The chestnuts were dropping their prickly green balls, the chrysanthemums and China asters had a ragged look, the glory of the geranium tribe was over, and even those combinations of colour which modern gardeners contrive from flowerless plants seemed to lose all glow and brightness under the dull grey sky. To Maurice’s mind, knowing that he was a messenger of trouble, the Manor House had a gloomy look.

He asked to see the Squire, and was ushered at once into the library, a room which Churchill had built. It was lighted from the top by a large ground-glass dome, and was lined from floor to ceiling with bookcases of ebonized wood, relieved with narrow lines of gold. In each of the four angles stood a pedestal of dark green serpentine, surmounted by a marble bust—Dante, Shakespeare, Voltaire, Goethe, the four great representatives of European literature. A noble room, filled with the noblest books. Such a room as a man, having made for himself, would love as if it were a sentient thing. These books, looking down upon him on every side, were as the souls of the mighty dead. Here, shut in from the outer world, he could never be companionless.

Churchill was seated at a table reading. He started up at Maurice’s entrance, and received him courteously, cordially even, so far as words may express cordiality, but with a sudden troubled look which did not escape Maurice, transient as it was.

‘Glad to see you here again, Clissold; but why didn’t you go straight to the ladies? You’ll find them in the hall. Most of our friends have left us, so you’ll be quite an acquisition this dull weather.’

‘You are very good, but I regret to say that the business which brings me here to-day denies me the right to approach Mrs. Penwyn. I come as a harbinger of trouble.’

Churchill’s face whitened to the lips, and his thin nervous hand fastened with a tight grip upon the edge of the table against which he stood, as if he could scarcely have held himself erect without that support.

‘How frightened he looks!’ thought Maurice. ‘A man of his type oughtn’t to be wanting in moral courage.’

‘And pray what is the nature of your evil tidings?’ Churchill asked, recovering self-control. His resolute nature speedily asserted itself. A faint tinge of colour came back to his sunken cheeks; his eyes lost their look of sudden horror, and assumed a hard, defiant expression.

‘This property—the Penwyn estate—is very dear to you, I think?’ interrogated Maurice.

‘It is as dear to me as a man’s birthright should naturally be to him; and it has been the happy home of my married life.’ This with a touch of tenderness. In no moment of his existence, however troubled, could he speak of Madge without tenderness.

‘Yet Penwyn can be hardly called your birthright, since you inherit it by an accident,’ said Maurice, nervously, anxious to take the edge off his unpleasant communication.

‘What is the drift of these remarks, Mr. Clissold? They seem to me entirely purposeless, and pardon me if I add, somewhat impertinent.’

‘Mr. Penwyn, I am here to inform you that there is a member of your family in existence who possesses a prior claim to this estate.’

‘You are dreaming, sir, or you are deceived by some impostor. I and my child are the sole representatives of the Penwyn family.’

‘There are secrets in every family, Mr. Penwyn. There has been a secret in your family, religiously kept for more than twenty years, but lately brought to light; in some part by my agency.’

‘What, sir, you have come into this house as a spy, while you have been secretly assailing my position as inheritor of my cousin’s estate?’

‘I have not entered your house since I made the discovery I speak of.’

‘Your discovery has come about with marvellous rapidity, then, for it is not long since you were my guest.’

‘My discovery has been arrived at quickly.’

‘Pray acquaint me with the nature of this mare’s-nest.’

‘I have to inform you that your uncle, George Penwyn, before leaving England for the last time, privately married the daughter of his father’s tenant, Michael Trevanard, of Borcel End.’

Churchill Penwyn laughed contemptuously.

‘I congratulate you upon having hit upon about the most improbable story I ever heard of!’ he said. ‘My uncle, George Penwyn, married to old Trevanard’s daughter! and nobody upon earth aware of the fact till you, a stranger, unearthed it? A likely story, Mr. Clissold!’

‘Likely or unlikely, it is true, and I have sufficient evidence to prove it, or I should not have broached the subject to you. I have in my possession a certified copy of the entry in the marriage register at St. John’s Church, Didmouth, Devonshire; and five letters in your uncle’s hand, acknowledging Muriel Trevanard as his wife; also a sealed letter from the same, committing her to the care of the late Mr. Tomlin, solicitor, of Seacomb, in the event of her needing that gentleman’s protection during her husband’s absence. Nor do I rely upon documentary evidence alone. The vicar of Didmouth, who married your uncle to Miss Trevanard, is still alive; and the principal witness of the marriage, Muriel’s friend and confidante, is ready to support the claim of Muriel’s daughter should you force her to appeal to the law, instead of seeing, as I hope you will see, the advisability of an equitable compromise. Miss Penwyn has no desire to exact her legal rights. She has empowered me to suggest a fair and honourable alternative.’

Maurice proceeded to give a brief outline of Justina’s case, and to suggest his own idea of an equitable settlement.

Churchill sat with folded arms, and gloomy face bent downward listening. This story of Maurice Clissold’s seemed to him, so far, hardly worth serious thought. It was so wildly improbable, so like the dream of a fevered brain, that any claimant should come forward to dispute his hold of wealth and station. Yet he told himself that Clissold was no fool, and would hardly talk of documentary evidence which he was unprepared to produce. On the other hand, this Clissold might be a villain, and the whole business a conspiracy.

‘Let me see your copy of the register, sir,’ Churchill said, authoritatively.

Maurice took a paper from his breast-pocket, and laid it on Mr. Penwyn’s desk. Yes. It was formal enough.

‘George Penwyn, bachelor, gentleman, of Penwyn Manor, to Muriel Trevanard, spinster, daughter of Michael Trevanard, farmer, of Borcel End. The witnesses, Maria Barlow, spinster, school-mistress, of Seacomb; and James Pope, clerk, Didmouth.’ If this were a genuine copy of an existing entry there would be no doubt as to the fact of George Penwyn’s marriage.

Both gentlemen were too much engrossed at this moment—Churchill pondering the significance of the document in his hand, Maurice watching his countenance as he meditated—to be aware of the opening of a door near the fireplace, a door which fitted into the bookcase, and was masked with dummy books. This door was gently opened, a woman’s face looked in for an instant, and was quickly withdrawn. But the door, although apparently closed, was not shut again.

‘And you pretend that there was issue to this marriage?’ said Churchill.

‘The lady whose claim I am here to assert is the daughter of Mr. George Penwyn, by that marriage.’

‘And pray where has this young lady been hiding herself all her life, and how is it that she has suffered her rights to be in abeyance all this time?’

‘She was brought up in ignorance of her parentage.’

‘Oh! I understand,’ cried Churchill, scornfully. ‘Some Miss Jones, or Smith, who has taken it into her wise young head—inspired doubtless by some astute friend—that she may as well prove herself a Penwyn, if she can. And you come to me with this liberal offer of a compromise to take half my estate in the most off-hand way. Upon my word, Mr. Clissold, you and this scheme of yours are a little too absurd. I can’t even allow myself to be angry with you. That would be taking the thing too seriously.’

‘Remember, Mr. Penwyn, if I leave this house without arriving at some kind of understanding with you I shall place the matter in the hands of my solicitors without delay, and the law must take its course. However protracted or costly the process by which Miss Penwyn may obtain her rights, I have no doubt as to the ultimate issue. She would have been contented with half your fortune. The law, if it give her anything will give her all.’

‘So be it. I will fight her to the bitter end. First and foremost, this marriage, supposing this document to be genuine,’ bringing down his clenched fist upon the paper, and with an evil upward look at Maurice, ‘is no marriage!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘A marriage with a person of unsound mind is no marriage. It is void in law. There is Blackstone to refer to if you doubt me,’ pointing to a set of volumes in dark brown Russia. ‘Now, Muriel, the daughter of Michael Trevanard, has been deranged for the last twenty years. It is a notorious fact to everybody in the neighbourhood.’

‘When that marriage took place, and for a year after the marriage, Muriel was as sane as you or I. Her brain was turned by the shock she experienced upon being informed suddenly of her husband’s awful death. I can bring forward sufficient witnesses to prove the state of her mind up to that time. And again you are to remember that the same authority you have just quoted tells you that no marriage is voidable after the death of either of the contracting parties.’

‘And you are prepared to prove that this young woman—this waif and stray, brought up without the knowledge of her name or parentage—is the legitimate daughter of my uncle, George Penwyn, and Muriel, his wife. Go your ways, Mr. Clissold, and make the best use of your evidence, documentary or otherwise. I will stand by my rights against you, and would stand by them against a stronger cause than yours.’

He touched a spring bell, which stood on his desk,—a summons answered with extreme promptitude.

‘The door,’ said the Squire, resuming his book, without so much as a parting glance at his visitor.

Maurice was conducted to the porch, and left the house without having seen Mrs. Penwyn or her sister. He was bitterly disappointed by the result of his morning’s work, which had proved compromise impossible, and left no course open to him save the letter of the law.

Scarcely had the library door closed on Maurice Clissold, when the other door, which had been............