“My home is at the other end of the county—at Ardguys.”
“I am familiar with the name,” said Balnillo, “but until lately, I have been so much in Edinburgh that I am out of touch with other places. I am not even aware to whom it belongs.”
“It is a little property, my lord—nothing but a few fields and a battered old house. But it belongs to my grandmother Flemington, who brought me up. She lives very quietly.”
“Indeed, indeed,” said the judge, his mind making a cast for a clue as a hound does for the scent.
He was not successful.
“I had not taken you for a Scot,” he said, after a moment.
“I have been told that,” said Archie; “and that reminds me that it would be proper to tell your lordship what I am. I am a painter, and at this moment your hall is full of my paraphernalia.”
Lord Balnillo did not usually show his feelings, but the look which, in spite of himself, flitted across his face, sent a gleam of entertainment through Archie.
“You are surprised,” he observed, sighing. “But when a man has to mend his fortunes he must mend them with what tools he can. Nor am I ashamed of my trade.”
“There is no need, Mr. Flemington,” replied the other, with the measured benevolence he had sometimes used upon the bench; “what you tell me does you honour—much honour, sir.”