"Gregory Lamb was staying at Pitmuir when she was at Cuthbert Grahame's, calling herself his wife. A half-bred, ill-conditioned young scamp he was."
"I should imagine that Mr. Lamb was not born in the caste of Vere de Vere."
"Were they acquainted then? What was there between them? How come they to be married now?--he without a penny, to my knowledge, she with all that money. She'd not marry such a creature as he was--for love, that I'll swear. They were birds of a feather, only he was more fool than knave, and she more knave than fool."
"That about describes them now--if a lawyer may say as much--under privilege."
"Andrew, can you keep a still tongue?"
"If I couldn't I shouldn't be sitting here."
"I've always had a suspicion that there was something wrong about that will."
"Do you mean the one under which she inherits? You needn't confine yourself to suspicion upon that point--it's about as wrong as it could be. If there had been substantial opposition she'd have found it hard to bring it in."
"I'm not meaning it in your sense. I know that Grahame signed it in the presence of those two daft lassies; but I don't believe that he knew what he was signing, although the evidence is all the other way. I've kept my doubts to myself until this moment, and even now I can't tell you just why I don't believe it--but I don't."
"Quite possibly you're right, but you can't prove it."