"He certainly was not dead twenty-nine years ago, and supposing for the sake of argument he was still alive—I ask you just to look at the case from that point of view?"
"Possibly, but improbably, he got into some big scrape—and found it necessary to disappear."
"But by all accounts, he was straight as a die—no debts—no scandals," argued the young man.
"He is most certainly dead this many a day—or——" and the little Colonel pursed up his lips, and stonily contemplated the opposite wall.
"Or?" repeated Mallender eagerly.
"Oh, I could tell you queer stories. If Geoffrey is alive, I can solve the puzzle in six letters—'a woman.'"
"What—a black woman! Oh, rats! you're not serious? though I've been to Brown and Co., and they hinted at the same thing."
"You did not get much change out of them, did you?"
"No, but I gathered that the man who impersonates my Uncle moves about within a radius of three hundred miles, more or less—and if he is to be found, I mean to have a good try. I told the old boys quite plainly, and they did not like it, no, not a little bit. I left them with their hackles up." He paused abruptly, for Colonel Tallboys—who had been lounging in his chair, nursing a remarkably neat foot and ankle—now sat erect, stiff as a ramrod; his face had assumed an entirely different aspect, it wore the expression of the President of a district court martial, who listens to some vital and unexpected evidence.
"I give you my solemn word of honour, Geoffrey, that I have not the vaguest idea of what you are talking about—a man who impersonates your Uncle—did you say?"