"A troublesome business, Sir Denzil," he said, when they were alone. "A troublesome business, whichever way you look at it. This"--and he flicked Nance's cherished lines--"may, of course, be make-believe, though it looks genuine enough on the face of it. That must be carefully looked into. But as to the children--you are in these women's hands absolutely and completely, and they know it."
"It looks deucedly like it."
"They know which is which well enough; but nothing on earth will make them speak--except their own interests, and that," he said thoughtfully, "won't be for another twenty years."
"It's too late to make away with them both, I suppose," said Sir Denzil cynically.
"Tchutt! It's bad enough as it is, but there's no noose in it at present. Besides, they are both undoubtedly your grandsons----"
"And which succeeds?" asked the baronet grimly.
"There's the rub. Deucedly awkward, if they both live--most deucedly awkward! There's always the chance, of course, that one may die."
"Not a chance," said Sir Denzil. "They'll both live to be a hundred. They can toss for the title when the time comes. I'd sooner trust a coin than those women's oaths."
The doctor nodded. He felt the same.
"What about this?" he asked, reading Nance's lines again. "Will you look into it?" He pulled out a pencil and noted places and dates in his pocket-book.