Presently he said, in a tone of anguish—
“Do you mean to say, young man, that you are Alfred Purvis, who ran away from Stoke Ferry Farm?”
“Most certainly I am,” answered the prisoner.
“It appears to me to be altogether incredible.”
“That is likely enough, sir, but it is a fact. You see, sir,” he said, calmly, “how intricate and mysterious are the ways of Providence. By a miracle I was saved from death in my infancy, and why? Most probably you have committed some crime, which has never been discovered. It is I who have been selected as an instrument of retribution. I own I would have preferred that I had been some one else, but——”
“Silence, sir, this insolence is altogether intolerable! Me commit a crime! Are you mad to make such an assertion?”
“Pardon me,” said Sutherland. “I did not make the assertion. I only threw it out as a suggestion, as a possibility, but no doubt the hypothesis is incorrect. It does not, however, in any way alter the leading facts connected with the history of your humble servant. You will find it difficult to set aside the relationship which exists between us.”
Mr. Kensett rose from his seat, and paced the room with rapid strides.
“It is enough,” he presently said. “There is no further need for threats or taunts if what you have been saying is true.”
“It is true—every word of it.”