"My dear boy, that defect will continue until the crack of doom. Pascal laid it bare in an epigram—'Plaisante justice! qu'une rivière ou une montaigne borne! Vérité au deçà du Pyrénées, erreur au delà!' It all depends on which side the Pyrenees Fox happens to be."
"Unfortunately, I am straddling the water shed at this moment. I have made a very unpleasant discovery, Abingdon, and I am glad we are alone to-night—we can speak freely. Some people named Sharpe & Smith wrote to me yesterday."
"I know them—an old-established firm of solicitors."
"Well, they urged me to give them an appointment on a private matter, and I did so. They began by trying to cross-examine me, but that was an abject failure. Seeing that whatever they had to say must stand on its own legs, they told me an extraordinary story. It appears that at a place called The Hall, Beltham, Devon, lives an elderly baronet, named Sir Philip Morland."
"Morland! Philip Morland!"
"Ah, you remember the name! It was given to a young derelict who once figured in the dock before you on a charge of being in unlawful possession——"
"The matter is not serious, then?"
"It is very serious. The real Philip Morland is my uncle."
"Do you mean to say that you learned this fact for the first time to-day from Sharpe & Smith?"
Philip laughed. By this time they were seated at the table, and their talk depended to a certain extent on the comings and goings of servants. At a dinner en famille, the presence of a ponderous butler and solemn lackeys was dispensed with.