“He is a deep one, then,” said he, and stood for a moment silent.
“If he is an impostor, yes,” assented Clarke; “but Lawyer Crouse, who talked with him half an hour last night, accepted him at once, and so did Mr. Sutherland.” Mr. Sutherland was the Baptist minister.
“The fools!” muttered the doctor, as much in anger as amazement; “has the whole town reached its dotage?”
Clarke, who seemed surprised at the doctor’s vehemence, quietly remarked:
“You were Mr. Earle’s best friend. If you say that this man is not he, there would of course be many to listen to you.”
But the doctor, resuming his accustomed expression, refused an answer to this suggestion, at which Polly’s face grew very pale, and she grasped his arm imploringly, saying as she did so:
“I cannot bear this uncertainty, I cannot bear to think there is any question about this matter. If he is my father, I owe him everything; if he is not——”
“Polly,”—The doctor spoke coldly but not unkindly, “marry Clarke, go with him to Cleveland where he has the promise of a fine position, and leave this arrant pretender to settle his rights himself. He will not urge them long when he finds the money gone for which he is striving.”
“You bid me do that? Then you know he is not my father.”
But the doctor instead of answering with the vigorous yes she had expected, looked aside and carelessly murmured: