world, her good name must ever be sacred
with me."

The astute glances again, and two pairs of upraised hands. The lawyer
had twisted toward the window.

"But our friend Bonnithorne will tell you that the law in effect
compelled me to evict my brother. You may not know that there is a
condition of English law in which a bastard becomes a permanent heir;
that is when he is called, in the language of the law, the bastard
eigne." There was a tremor in his voice as he added softly: "Believe me,
I had no choice."

Drayton stamped his heavy foot, threw down his pipe, and jumped to his
feet. "It's a lie, the lot of it!" he blurted. Then he fumbled at his
watch-pocket, and pulled out a paper. "That's my register, straight and
plain."

He stammered it aloud:

"Ritson, Paul; father, Allan Ritson; mother, Grace Ritson. Date of
birth, April 6, 1847; place, Crieff, Scotland."

Hugh Ritson, a little pale, smiled. The others turned to him in their
amazement. In an instant he had regained an appearance of indifference.

"Where does it come from?" he asked.

"The registrar's at Edinburgh. D'ye say it ain't right?"

"No; but I say, what is it worth? Gentlemen," said Hugh, turning to the
visitors, "compare it with the register of my father's marriage.
Observe, the one date is April 6, 1847; the other is June 12, 1847. Even
if genuine, does it prove legitimacy?"

Drayton laid his hand on the lawyer's arm. "Here you, speak up, will
ye?" he said.

Mr. Bonnithorne rose, and then Hugh Ritson's pale face became ghastly.

"This birth occurred in Scotland," he said. "Now, if the father happened
to hold a Scotch domicile, and the mother lived with him as his wife,
the child would be legitimate."

"Without a marriage?"

"Without a ceremony."

Natt pushed into the room, his cap in one hand, a letter in the other.
He had knocked twice, and none had heard. "The post, sir; one letter for
Master Paul."

"Good lad!" Drayton clutched it with a cry of delight.

"But my father had no Scotch domicile," said Hugh, with apparent
composure.

"Oh, but he had," said Drayton, tearing open his envelope.

"He was a Scotsman born," said Bonnithorne, taking another document from
Drayton's hand. "See, this is his register. Odd, isn't it?"

Hugh Ritson's eyes flashed. He looked steadily into the face of the
lawyer, then he took the paper.

The next moment he crushed it in his palm and flung it out of the
window. "I shall want proof both of