Mr. Castlemaine put his arm within the speaker's, and they crossed over in that direction. Both of them were sober as judges. It was hardly light enough to see much of the beauty of the sea; but Mr. Knivett professed to enjoy it, saying he did not get the chance of its sight or its breezes at Stilborough. In point of fact, he had something to say to the Master of Greylands, and did not care to enter upon the subject abruptly.
"Weary work, it must be, for those night fishermen!" remarked the lawyer, pointing to two or three stationary lights in the distance.
"They are used to it, Knivett."
"I suppose so. Use goes a great way in this life. By the way, Mr. Castlemaine--it has just occurred to me--I wish you'd let me give you a word of advice, and receive it in good part."
"What is it? Speak out."
"Could you not manage to show the deed of tenure by which you own Greylands' Rest?" pursued the lawyer, insensibly dropping his voice.
"I suppose I could if I chose," replied Mr. Castlemaine, after a scarcely perceptible pause.
"Then I should recommend you to do so. I have wanted to say this to you for some little time; but the truth is, I did not know how you would take it."
"Why have you wanted to say it to me?"
"Well--the fact is, people are talking. People will talk, you know--great idiots! If you could contrive to let somebody see the deed--of course you'd not seem to show it purposely--by which you hold the property, the world would be convinced that you had no cause to--to wish young Anthony out of the way, and would stop its blatant tongue. Do so, Mr. Castlemaine."