“YOU AUDACIOUS MISCREANT,” CRIED BOURNE, STRIKING THE GIPSY WITH HIS WALKING STICK.

“I am not William Rawton,” interrupted the gipsy.

“Then who are you?”

“What do you want to know for?”

“No matter; I do want to know—​let that suffice.”

“Then I don’t choose to tell you; let that suffice; but even if you could prove me to be Rawton, which you never can, what would it matter?”

“Then this lady would be the wife of two husbands,” cried the doctor, bowing with mock gravity; “don’t you see that?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Ah! but I do.”

“Oh, so you think; but you are mistaken,” observed the gipsy, perfectly unmoved; “never were more mistaken in your life.”