“Yes, sir—the letters, for instance.”
“I have only the one I received. The others were stolen from me.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, sir, with everything of value that I possessed. Hang it all, man, don’t look so sceptical.”
“I beg pardon, sir. Go on. Of course you see I must have proof that you are the gentleman you represent yourself to be.”
“Well, let me see. I disposed of everything I had before I went upon a hunting expedition, all but a few necessaries, and bought other things suitable for my expedition. These, I regret to say, I have lost, and but for the kindness of some people in the West, I should not have been able to get here.”
“Then you have nothing you can show?” said the old lawyer.
Gertrude looked wildly and inquiringly at their visitor, for vaguely it seemed as if some one had been holding out to her a hand to save her from a fate from which she shrank more and more as the hours glided by, but that, after all, this stretched-out hand was only a delusion and a snare.
“Well, no,” said their visitor, with his broad brow puckering up with perplexity. “You see,”—and he gave all a frank, half-smiling look, which won upon Mrs Hampton, though she received it in the most stony way—“I came here to-night all eager, and expecting to be received with open arms, and you all look like ice, and treat me as if I were an impostor. No, sir, I have no proofs; and, for the moment, I don’t know how to establish my identity. Of course it will be all right. I can only say now that I am George Harrington.”
Gertrude, in spite of herself, gave him a pitying glance, to which he responded by one so bold and masterful that he felt for the moment as if held, and the colour, which had been absent from her cheeks for weeks, slowly began to mantle there.