ad not been sufficiently explicit, had occurred to him,
stopped and placing his hand on Gerard's arm, withdrew him again,
saying in a voice which could only be heard by the individual whom he
addressed. "You understand--I have not the slightest doubt myself of
your moral right: I believe on every principle of justice, that Mowbray
Castle is as much yours as the house that is built by the tenant on the
lord's land: but can we prove it? We never had the legal evidence.
You are in error in supposing that these papers were of any vital
consequence; mere memoranda; very useful no doubt: I hope I shall find
them; but of no validity. If money were the only difficulty, trust me,
it should not be wanting; I owe much to the memory of your father, my
good Gerard; I would fain serve you--and your daughter. I'll not tell
you what I would do for you, my good Gerard. You would think me foolish;
but I am alone in the world, and seeing you again, and talking of old
times--I really am scarcely fit for business. Go, however, I must; I
have an appointment at the House of Lords. Good bye. I must say farewell
to the Lady Sybil."

Book 4 Chapter 10

"You can't have that table, sir, it is engaged," said a waiter at the
Athenaeum to a member of the club who seemed unmindful of the type of
appropriation which in the shape of an inverted plate, ought to have
warned him off the coveted premises.

"It is always engaged," grumbled the member. "Who has taken it?"

"Mr Hatton, sir."

And indeed at this very moment, it being about eight o'clock of the same
day on which the meeting detailed in the last chapter had occurred,
a very handsome dark brougham with a beautiful horse was stopping in
Waterloo Place before the portico of the Athenaeum Club-house, from
which equipage immediately emerged the prosperous person of Baptist
Hatton.

This club was Hatton's only relaxation. He had never entered society;
and now his habits were so formed, the effort would have been a painful
one; though with a first-rate reputation in his calling and supposed to
be rich, the openings were numerous to a familiar intercourse with those
middle-aged nameless gentlemen of easy circumstances who haunt clubs,
and dine a great deal at each others' houses and chambers; men who
travel regularly a little, and gossip regularly a great deal; who lead
a sort of facile, slipshod existence, doing nothing, yet mightily
interested in what others do; great critics of little thi