“Master Skyffington, ma’am,” he said in his usual drawly voice, “he is on his way to Dover, and desired his respects, an you wish to see him.”

“Yes! yes!  I’ll see Master Skyffington,” she said with alacrity, rising from her chair, “go apprise Sir Marmaduke, and ask Master Skyffington to come within.”

She was all agitation now, eager, excited, and herself went forward to meet the quaint, little wizened figure which appeared in the doorway.

Master Skyffington, attorney-at-law, was small and thin—­looked doubly so, in fact, in the black clothes which he wore.  His eyes were blue and watery, his manner peculiarly diffident.  He seemed to present a perpetual apology to the world for his own existence therein.

Even now as Mistress de Chavasse seemed really overjoyed to see him, he backed his meager person out of the doorway as she approached, whereupon she—­impatiently—­clutched his arm and dragged him forward into the hall.

“Sit down there, master,” she said, speaking with obvious agitation, and almost pushing the poor little man off his feet whilst dragging him to a chair.  “Sir Marmaduke will see you anon, but ’twas a kind thought to come and bring me news.”

“Hem! ... hem! ...” stammered Master Skyffington, “I ... that is ... hem ...  I left Canterbury this morning and was on my way to Dover ... hem ... this lies on my way, ma’am ... and ...”

“Yes! yes!” she said impatiently, “but you have some news, of course?”

“News! ... news!” he muttered apologetically, and clutching at his collar, which seemed to be choking him, “what news—­er—­I pray you, ma’am?”

“That clew?” she insisted.

“It was very slight,” he stammered.

“And it led to naught?”

“Alas!”

Her eagerness vanished.  She sank back into her chair and moaned.

“My last hope!” she said dully.

“Nay! nay!” rejoined Master Skyffington quite cheerfully, his courage seemingly having risen with her despair.  “We must not be despondent.  The noble Earl of Northallerton hath interested himself of late in the search and ...”

But she shrugged her shoulders, whilst a short, bitter laugh escaped her lips: 

“At last?” she said with biting sarcasm.  “After twelve years!”

“Nay! but remember, ma’am, that his lordship now is very ill ... and nigh on seventy years old....  Failing your late husband, Master Rowland—­whom the Lord hath in His keeping—­your eldest son is ... hem ... that is ... by law, ma’am, ... and with all respect due to Sir Marmaduke ... your eldest son is heir to the Earldom.”

“And though his lordship hates me, he still prefers that my son should succeed to his title, rather than Sir Marmaduke whom he abhors.”

But that suggestion was altogether too much for poor Master Skyffington’s sense of what was due to so noble a family, and to its exalted head.

“That is ... er ...” he muttered in supreme discomfort, swallowing great gulps which rose to his throat at this rash and disrespectful speech from the ex-actress.  “Family feuds ... hem ... er ... very distressing of a truth ... and ... that is ...”