“We will try and do our duty,” he corrected, “praying Providence to help us.”
And the doctor, with a glance at them both, sprang into his buggy and was driving off when he rose and flung back at Polly this final word of paternal advice:
“He is the claimant; you are the one in possession. Let him prove himself to be the man he calls himself.”
Clarke, dropping Polly’s arm, sprang after the doctor.
“Wait! one moment,” he cried. “What do you call proof? You who knew him so well in the past, tell us how to make sure that his pretensions are not false.”
The doctor, drawing up his horse, paused for a moment in deep thought.
“Ask him,” he finally said, “to show you the medal given him by the French government. As it has never been found in his house, and as it was useless to raise money upon, he should, if he is Ephraim Earle, be able to produce it. Till he does, I advise you to cherish doubts in his regard, and above all to keep that innocent and enthusiastic young girl out of his clutches.”
And with a smile which would have taken more than Clarke’s experience with the world to understand, much less to explain, the doctor whipped up his horse and disappeared down the road towards the station.