“Lord Skene,” I said clearly, “do you understand what this decision means to me? Have you drawn any real inference from the facts I have put before you?”
“Hush, my boy, hush!” he said pacifically. “I have reached a point, certainly, as you have, beyond which all is speculation and surmise.”
“As yet—yes.”
“Why test it further? It is an incredible enough tale as it stands. I have listened to many less improbable in my time, and found them one and all to crumble under the weight of evidence. What chief witness remains to this? Why one who has never spoken the truth in her life, but whose reputation, on the other hand, would involve in its exposure the very soul of truth. I must ask you to bear in mind, Richard, that this wretched woman is still my wife’s mother.”
“I bear it in mind, sir, as I do also bear in mind, and most firmly believe, that she helped Mr Dalston, who had made me fatherless, to make me motherless also.”
He remained silent a little, seeming to struggle for expression.
“Well,” he said at last, “it may be conceded as a plausible theory, at least. But what if, after all, so dark and fantastic a tale failed of itself before the test of daylight? You would hardly have bettered your position in that case, Richard. But let it stand at the point where it has arrived, and I, for my part, am willing to accept it on its merits.”
“In which case, sir?”
“In which case I should admit the moral of your more intimate claim on my regard, both sentimental and practical.”
“You would not, do you not mean, acknowledge me as a grandson, but you would undertake that I received the provision of one?”