Mr. Jetsam laughed hardly.
“So that was how you got on the track?” said Carpentaria.
“Yes. I then pursued my inquiries in Torquay, and I found my old nurse. She told me that the real child of Mr. Ilam had a large crimson birthmark on the calf of his left leg. I had that mark. She also told me that there existed a photograph—one of the old daguerreotypes—of me as a child in the arms of my step-mother, my father standing close by, and that the mark on my leg was most clearly visible on this photograph. And that was the only real solid piece of information that I obtained, except that the photograph used to be kept in an old lacquered box. I had an instinct that the photograph had been preserved. And it was preserved—until to-night! I relied on the photograph. I could dimly recollect Torquay and Exeter platforms, but of what use would my assertions be without some proof, some tangible proof? When I thought of my wasted and spoiled and miserable life—and of what it might have been had I not been hated by a woman, I was filled with hatred and with—with such sorrow as you can’t understand.”
A sob escaped from Mr. Jetsam, and Carpentaria got up and took his hand.
“It is not too late for justice,” said Carpentaria.
“That woman has always hated me,” Jetsam murmured. “And even to-night her hatred still burned so fiercely that she tried to kill me. Even if she could speak, would she admit the truth? And she cannot speak.”
“I think I can cause her to communicate with us,” said Carpentaria. “You will see in a moment.”