As they left the hang-dog figure that so lately was a respected Writer to the Signet, they said to one another that all was over socially with Andrew Walkingshaw. And it had been so public, so dramatic, that they feared—of course they hoped against hope, but still they feared that the fine old business could not but suffer too. In London one might disgrace oneself and yet retain one's clients; but could one here? Well, anyhow, that and many other interesting aspects of the case would be debated by all Edinburgh to-morrow morning.
Meanwhile, the unhappy victim of fate was left alone with his wife, his aunt, and his long-lost offspring. A desperate gesture dismissed Miss Walkingshaw; yet, though she trembled beneath his wrathful eye, she could not refrain from beseeching him again—
"He must be, Andrew—he must be! Just compare him with the picture."
And then she shrank out of the drawing-room.
"Leave us," he commanded his wife.
Her pale eyes gazed on him defiantly.
"I certainly shall not. I demand a full explanation, Andrew!"
"Go away, will you!"
For answer she sat down firmly upon the sofa.