“Nobody will attempt to gainsay that. He was a most worthy man—but to my story. This young man who is charged with fraud—this fellow who calls himself Sutherland now, and also passed as a Mr. Fortescue when he was a guest at your house, is the farmer’s boy who, years and years ago, ran away from Stoke Ferry.”
“Run away!” cried Ashbrook, in a state of bewilderment. “Look ’ee here, Muster Kensett, I dunno as I rightly understood ee.”
“You will do so after a while. You know, I suppose, that the late Mr. Jamblin had placed under his care a lad who was said to be an orphan? The youngster’s name was Alfred Purvis, and from what I can gather he was a sore trouble to your father-in-law.”
“Well, I have heard so,” ejaculated Ashbrook. “I do remember a lad of that name being at the farm, but he ran away years ago, and has never been heard of since.”
“That’s right enough, Ashbrook; all traces of the scapegrace were lost. But, nevertheless, I have good reason for saying that the young man who was arrested to-day is none other than he.”
“What! Alf Purvis? Oh, that be impossible. I wunno b’lieve it.”
“I wish I could not believe, but that I find impossible.”
“Never, Mr. Kensett—it beant loikely.”
“It is so, Ashbrook. I am afraid it is true.”
“Well, I am knocked silly if that be the case. Why, he aint a mo’sel loike the boy.”