“I have formed an opinion—yes, but I should like to see if it coincides with yours. You think—”
“I know,” corrected the General. “I know that, as two persons wrote in that book, either it is not Ripaldi’s book, or the last of them was not Ripaldi. I saw the last writer at his work, saw him with my own eyes. Yet he did not write with Ripaldi’s hand—this is incontestable, I am sure of it, I will swear it—ergo, he is not Ripaldi.”
“But you should have known this at the time,” interjected M. Floçon, fiercely. “Why did you not discover the change of identity? You should have seen that this was not Ripaldi.”
“Pardon me. I did not know the man. I had not noticed him particularly on the journey. There was no reason why I should. I had no communication, no dealings, with any of my fellow passengers except my brother and the Countess.”
“But some of the others would surely have remarked the change?” went on the Judge, greatly puzzled. “That alone seems enough to condemn your theory, M. le General.”
“I take my stand on fact, not theory,” stoutly maintained Sir Charles, “and I am satisfied I am right.”
“But if that was not Ripaldi, who was it? Who would wish to masquerade in his dress and character, to make entries of that sort, as if under his hand?”
“Some one determined to divert suspicion from himself to others—”
“But stay—does he not plainly confess his own guilt?”
“What matter if he is not Ripaldi? Directly the inquiry was over, he could steal away and resume his own personality—that of a man supposed to be dead, and therefore safe from all interference and future pursuit.”