A strange conduit through which to convey the good blood Father thought we Stauntons must have. But then Father had never troubled to pretend that he had much regard for Doc Staunton. Which was strange in itself, in a way, for Father was very strong on the regard children should have for parents. Not that he ever said so directly, or urged Caroline and me to honour our father and mother. But I recall that he was down on H.G. Wells, because in his Experiment in Autobiography Wells had said frankly that his parents weren’t up to much and that escape from them was his first step toward a good life. Father was not consistent. But Doc Staunton had been consistent, and what had consistency made of him?

The hunt was up, and Doc Staunton was the fox.

Notes from Pledger-Brown punctuated the year that followed. He wrote an elegant Italic hand, as became a genealogist, and scraps of intelligence would arrive by the college messenger service: “Wallowcrop Cumberland dialect word. Am following up this clue. A.P-B.” And, “Sorry to say nothing comes of enquiries in Cumberland. Am casting about in Lincoln.” Or, “Tally-ho! A Henry Staunton born 1866 in Somerset!” followed a week later by, “False scent; Somerset Henry died aged 3 mos.” Clearly he was having a wonderful adventure, but I had little time to think about it. I was up to my eyes in Jurisprudence, that formal science of positive law, and in addition to formal studies Pargetter was making me read Kelly’s Famous Advocates and Their Speeches and British Forensic Eloquence aloud to him, dissecting the rhetoric of notable counsel and trying to make some progress in that line myself. Pargetter was determined that I should not be what he called an ignorant pettifogger, and he made it clear that as a Canadian I started well behind scratch in the journey toward professional literacy and elegance.

“ ‘The law, besides being a profession, is one of the humanities,’ ” he said to me one day, and I knew from the way he spoke he was quoting. “Who said that?” I didn’t know. “Then never forget that it was one of your countrymen, your present Prime Minister, Louis St Laurent,” he said, punching me sharply in the side, as he often did when he wanted to make a point. “It’s been said before, but it’s never been said better. Be proud it was a Canadian who said it.” And he went on to belabour me, as he had often done before, with Sir Walter Scott’s low opinion of lawyers who knew nothing of history or literature; from these studies, said he, I would learn what people were and how they might be expected to behave. “But wouldn’t I learn that from clients?” I asked, to try him. “Clients!” he said, and I would not have believed anyone could make a two-syllable word stretch out so long; “you’ll learn precious little from clients except folly and duplicity and greed. You’ve got to stand above that.”