The next morning the three gentlemen, with Mr. Grey’s clerk, sat down to breakfast, solemn and silent.  The clerk had been especially entreated to say nothing of what he had learned, and was therefore not questioned by his master.  But in truth he had learned but little, having spent his time in the sorting and copying of letters which, though they all bore upon the subject in hand, told nothing of the real tale.  Farther surmises were useless now, as at eleven o’clock Mr. Grey and Mr. Merton were to go up together to the squire’s room.  The clerk was to remain within call, but there would be no need of Mountjoy.  “I suppose I may as well go to bed,” said he, “or up to London, or anywhere.”  Mr. Grey very sententiously advised him at any rate not to go up to London.

The hour came, and Mr. Grey, with Merton and the clerk, disappeared up-stairs.  They were summoned by Miss Scarborough, who seemed to feel heavily the awful solemnity of the occasion.  “I am sure he is going to do something very dreadful this time,” she whispered to Mr. Grey, who seemed himself to be a little awe-struck, and did not answer her.

At two o’clock they all met again at lunch and Mr. Grey was silent, and in truth very unhappy.  Merton and the clerk were also silent, as was Miss Scarborough,—­silent as death.  She, indeed, knew nothing, but the other three knew as much as Mr. Scarborough could or would tell them.  Mountjoy was there also, and in the middle of the meal broke out violently:  “Why the mischief don’t you tell me what it is that my father has said to you?”

“Because I do not believe a word of his story,” said Mr. Grey.

“Oh, Mr Grey!” ejaculated Miss Scarborough.

“I do not believe a word of his story,” repeated Mr. Grey.  “Your father’s intelligence is so high, and his principles so low, that there is no scheme which he does not think that he cannot carry out against the established laws of his country.  His present tale is a made-up fable.”

“What do you say, Merton?” asked Mountjoy.

“It looks to me to be true,” said Merton.  “But I am no lawyer.”

“Why don’t you tell me what it is?” said Mountjoy.

“I cannot tell you,” said Grey, “though he commissioned me to do so.  Greenwood there will tell you.”  Greenwood was the name of the clerk.  “But I advise you to take him with you to your own room.  And Mr. Merton would, I am sure, go with you.  As for me, it would be impossible that I should do credit in the telling of it to a story of which I do not believe a single word.”

“Am I not to know?” asked Miss Scarborough, plaintively.

“Your nephew will tell you,” said Mr. Grey,—­“or Mr. Merton; or Mr. Greenwood can do so, if he has permission from Mr. Scarborough.  I would rather tell no one.  It is to me incredible.”  With that he got up and walked away.

“Now then, Merton,” said Mountjoy, rising from his chair.

“Upon my word I hardly know what to do,” said Merton.