your facts and your law," he said.

"Eh, and welcome," said Drayton, shouting in his agitation. "Listen to
this," and he proceeded to read.

"Wait! From whom?" asked Hugh Ritson. "Some pettifogger?"

"The solicitor-general," said Bonnithorne.

"Is that good enough?" asked Drayton, tauntingly.

"Go on," said Hugh, rapping the table with his finger-tips.

Drayton handed the letter to the lawyer. "Do you read it," he said; "I
ain't flowery. I'm a gentleman, and--" He stopped suddenly and tramped
the floor, while Bonnithorne read:

"If there is no reason to suppose the father lost his Scotch
domicile, the son is legitimate. If the husband recognized his wife
in registering his son's birth, the law of Scotland would presume
that there was a marriage, but whether of ceremony or consent would
be quite indifferent."

There was a pause, Drayton took the letter from the lawyer's hands,
folded it carefully, and put it in his fob-pocket. Then he peered into
Hugh Ritson's face with a leer of triumph. Bonnithorne had slunk aside.
The guests were silent.

"D'ye hear?" said Drayton, "the son is legitimate." He gloated over the
words, and tapped his pocket as he repeated them. "What d'ye say to it,
eh?"

At first Hugh Ritson struggled visibly for composure, and in an instant
his face was like marble. Drayton came close to him.

"You were going to give me the go-by, eh? Turn me out-o'-doors, eh?
Damme, it's my turn now, so it is!"

So saying, Drayton stepped to the door and flung it open.

"This house is mine," he said; "go, and be damned to you!"

At this unexpected blow, Hugh Ritson beat the ground with his foot. He
looked round at the strangers, and felt like a wretch who was gagged and
might say nothing. Then he halted to where Drayton stood with
outstretched arm.

"Let me have a word with you in private," he said in a voice that was
scarcely audible.

Drayton lifted his hand, and his fist was clinched.

"Not a syllable!" he said. His accent was brutal and frenzied.

Hugh Ritson's nostrils quivered, and his eyes flashed. Drayton quailed
an instant, and burst into a laugh.

There was a great silence. Bonnithorne was still before the window, his
face down, his hands clasped behind him, his foot pawing the ground.
Hugh Ritson walked to his side. He contemplated him a moment, and then
touched him on the shoulder. When he spoke, his face was dilated with
passion, and his voice was low and deep.

"T