"Not Paynton," said Larcher, finishing his wine and setting down the glass; "there is not such a person!"
"Aha!" remarked Tait, rubbing his hands. "I thought the name was a feigned one. And who is our friend, Mr. Paynton?"
"My father!"
Tait opened his mouth to utter an ejaculation, shut it without doing so, and looked dumfounded at his friend.
"What—what—what do you mean? Are you mad?" he stammered, sitting down limply.
"No, I am not mad," groaned Claude, "though I have suffered enough to make me so. I mean what I say. It was Jeringham who was murdered. Jeringham, who was dressed as Darnley on that night, as was my father. Jeringham, whose corpse was so unrecognizable by decomposition that it was thought to be that of George Larcher. My father is alive! My father is hiding here as Ferdinand Paynton. This is his story of the tragedy."
He placed the roll of paper in Tait's hands, and poured himself out another glass of wine. Overcome with amazement the little man looked first at the paper, then at his friend. It was some minutes before he could collect his wits together and speak coherently.
"What an extraordinary thing," he said at length. "You thought both your parents dead, but now it seems they are alive. Your mother at Clarence Cottage, Hampstead; your father at Rose Cottage, Thorston. Did you tell your father that Mrs. Larcher was still in existence?" he asked sharply.
"I had no time to do so," said Claude, with an effort. "My father placed those papers in my hand, and then confessed who he was. I wished to speak further to him, but he pushed me out of the room, saying, 'Read that confession, and form your judgment before you accept me as your father.' I hardly knew what I was doing till I found myself in the lane outside. Then I came on here. I still feel quite bewildered."
"I don't wonder at it! Take another glass of wine. Did your——"