“Yes, sir, when I showed it to him. He asked to see it, you know, when I told him about the Sanskrit letters.”
“Naturally, as a Sanskrit scholar,” said the Colonel drily. “Sit down, my boy.—Doctor, I am very glad you sent for me, and that I am able to clear up this miserable little mystery. You knew this Professor Barclay?”
“Only as coming to me with testimonials to prove that he had been one of the professors at Stillham College.”
“Yes; and his name?”
“Barclay—Professor Barclay, Professor of Sanskrit and Hindustani. He applied for an engagement here.”
“Humph! All wrong,” said the Colonel. “I thought I knew his face when he tried to thrust himself upon me in the hotel; and I was right. I did know it, though thirty years had elapsed since we last met. A man who had been out in Calcutta and picked up a little Sanskrit and a pretty good smattering of Hindustani—a man who can chatter a bit in a foreign tongue always seems a big scholar to one who can’t. This fellow, on the strength of his acquirements, came back to England and obtained an appointment near London where military cadets were in training for the Honourable East India Company’s Service. I was there—not Stillham, but Barniscombe; name not Barclay, but Roberts. He was kicked out, Doctor, for blackmailing the students. He was not much more than a boy himself in those days.”
“Colonel,” cried the Doctor indignantly, “are you prepared to say you are sure, and that this is a fact?”
“Yes,” said the Colonel coolly. “He blackmailed me.”
“Oh, impossible!” cried Morris wildly.
“No, sir,” said the Colonel, smiling. “Quite possible. But you don’t offend me, sir. I admire the way in which you defend the man whom you seem to have made your friend.—Well, Doctor, there’s your man.—Why, boys, you seem to have been babies in his hands. Glyn, I’m ashamed of you.”