"We have never had a case of the kind, as far as I know. Certainly not
in my time," said the Seigneur, smiling quizzically across the
tea-table at Graeme. "But you gentlemen of the pen are allowed a
certain amount of license in such matters, are you not?"
"We sometimes take it, anyhow. But one likes to stick as close to fact
as possible."
They were sitting in the shady corner in front of the Seigneurie, with
four dogs basking in the sun beyond, and beyond them the shaven lawns
and motionless trees, the leafy green tunnel that led to the lane, and
a lovely glimpse into the enclosed gardens through the ancient gateway
whose stones had known the saints of old.
Graeme had put a certain proposition to the Lord of the Island,
nominally in connection with the story he was busy upon, but in
reality of vital concern to the larger story in which Margaret and he
were writing the history of their lives.
"Sark, you know, is a portion of the British Empire, or perhaps I
should say the British Empire belongs to Sark, but we are not under
British law. We are a law unto ourselves here," said the Seigneur.
"And the authority of a British Court would carry no weight with you?
In the case I have put to you, if the Court of Chancery ordered you to
surrender the young lady, you would refuse to do so?"
"I could refuse to do so. What I actually would do might depend on
circumstances."
"I see," said Graeme musingly, and decided that the Seigneur's
goodwill was worthy of every possible cultivation both by himself and
Margaret. For he did not look like one who would help a friend into
trouble.