"I think—to save you and the police useless trouble—you had better pay a personal visit to my brother," said Sir Harry. "You have rightly said that he has been in hiding in the west wing; he is there still."
"Your brother!—George!" exclaimed Mr. Edwin Barley, quite taken aback by the invitation, and suspecting some trick.
"My brother George," was the quiet answer. "Did you think I was speaking of Sir Thomas? He, poor fellow, is no longer in existence."
"As I hear: and I am sorry for it. Your servant wished to assure me that you had succeeded to the honours; he calls you 'Sir Harry.' I told him better," concluded Mr. Edwin Barley, with a cough that said much.
"I do succeed to them—more's the pity. I wish Thomas had lived to bear them to a green old age."
"Let me advise you not to assume them, at any rate, Harry Chandos the time has not come for it, and the world might laugh at you. George Chandos, fugitive-criminal though he has been, would succeed until proved guilty. Wait."
"You are wasting my time," rejoined Sir Harry. "Will you pay a visit to the west wing?"
"For what purpose? You are fooling me!"
"I told you the purpose—to see my brother George. You shall see him, on my word of honour."
The answer was a gesture of assent, and Sir Harry crossed the hall to ascend the stairs. Mr. Edwin Barley slowly followed him, doubt in his step, defiance in his face. That he was thoroughly perplexed, is saying little; but he came to the conclusion as he walked along the gallery that George Heneage was about to beseech his clemency. His clemency! Hill opened the west wing. Seeing a stranger, she would have barred it again, but Sir Harry put her aside with calm authority, and went straight to one of the rooms. Turning for a moment there, he spoke to his visitor.