Merton, as it chanced, had occasion for the services of a lady in this mood; a lady at once attractive, and steely-hearted; resolute to revenge, on the whole of the opposite sex, the baseness of a Fellow of his College.  Such is the frenzy of an injured love—­illogical indeed (for we are not responsible for the errors of isolated members of our sex), but primitive, natural to women, and even to some men, in Miss Willoughby’s position.

The occasion for such services as she would perform was provided by a noble client who, on visiting the office, had found Merton out and Logan in attendance.  The visitor was the Earl of Embleton, of the North.  Entering the rooms, he fumbled with the string of his eyeglass, and, after capturing it, looked at Logan with an air of some bewilderment.  He was a tall, erect, slim, and well-preserved patrician, with a manner really shy, though hasty critics interpreted it as arrogant.  He was ‘between two ages,’ a very susceptible period in the history of the individual.

‘I think we have met before,’ said the Earl to Logan.  ’Your face is not unfamiliar to me.’

‘Yes,’ said Logan, ‘I have seen you at several places;’ and he mumbled a number of names.

‘Ah, I remember now—­at Lady Lochmaben’s,’ said Lord Embleton.  ’You are, I think, a relation of hers. . . .’

‘A distant relation:  my name is Logan.’

‘What, of the Restalrig family?’ said the Earl, with excitement.

‘A far-off kinsman of the Marquis,’ said Logan, adding, ’May I ask you to be seated?’

‘This is really very interesting to me—­surprisingly interesting,’ said the Earl.  ’What a strange coincidence!  How small the world is, how brief are the ages!  Our ancestors, Mr. Logan, were very intimate long ago.’

‘Indeed?’ said Logan.

’Yes.  I would not speak of it to everybody; in fact, I have spoken of it to no one; but recently, examining some documents in my muniment-room, I made a discovery as interesting to me as it must be to you.  Our ancestors three hundred years ago—­in 1600, to be exact—­were fellow conspirators.’

‘Ah, the old Gowrie game, to capture the King?’ asked Logan, who had once kidnapped a cat.

His knowledge of history was mainly confined to that obscure and unexplained affair, in which his wicked old ancestor is thought to have had a hand.

‘That is it,’ said the visitor—­’the Gowrie mystery!  You may remember that an unknown person, a friend of your ancestor, was engaged?’

‘Yes,’ said Logan; ‘he was never identified.  Was his name Harris?’

The peer half rose to his feet, flushed a fine purple, twiddled the obsolete little grey tuft on his chin, and sat down again.

’I think I said, Mr. Logan, that the hitherto unidentified associate of your ancestor was a member of my own family.  Our name is not Harris—­a name very honourably borne—­our family name is Guevara.  My ancestor was a cousin of the brave Lord Willoughby.’