Mr. Hammond had just taken his seat in his carriage, and sat with one hand upon the door, awaiting Linton's coming.
“I am run sharp for time, Mr. Linton,” cried he, “and have not a second to lose. I wish sincerely I could have given a little more time to that document—not indeed that any feature of difficulty exists in forming an opinion, only that I believe I could have put your friend on the safe road as to his future course.”
“You regard it then as authentic—as a good and valid instrument?” said Linton, in a low but eager voice.
“So much so,” said Hammond, lowering his tone to a mere whisper, “that if he does not marry the young lady in question, I would not give him twenty shillings for his title.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Linton, leaning his head on the door of the carriage, as if to conceal his chagrin, but in reality to hide the exuberance of his joy; “and this is your candid opinion of the case?”
“I am willing to stake my fame as a lawyer on the issue; for, remember, the whole history of the suit is familiar to me. I recollect well the flaws in the course of proofs adduced, and I see how this discovery reconciles each discrepancy, and supplies every missing link of the chain.”
“Poor fellow!—it will be a sad blow for him,” said Linton, with admirably feigned emotion.
“But it need not, Mr. Linton; the church can tie a knot not even an equity suit can open. Let him marry.”
“Ay, if he will.”
“Tell him he must; tell him what I now tell you, that this girl is the greatest heiress in the land, and that he is a beggar. Plain speaking, Mr. Linton, but time is short Good-bye.”