“Rather an ugly place still, sir. The skull was slightly fractured. Do you wish for that proof of my identity?”
“I should like that proof of the truth of your story, sir. I am a lawyer.”
“Give me your hand, then.”
He took the old man’s index finger, bent lower, and pressed it upon the back of his head.
The old man shuddered and drew back.
“And if you want any further proof that I am the man I say, I have one here that I had forgotten. When I was a child, for some freak, my father tattooed a heart and dart upon my breast. There they are.”
He tore open the flannel shirt he wore, and displayed the blue marks upon his clear white skin.
“There, sir; that is all I can tell you now. The next thing is to confront Mr Dan Portway.”
“You think, then, that your old companion—I mean you wish me to believe that your old companion took everything he could to prove his identity, and has come here, and traded upon the knowledge he won?”
“And come here and laid claim to the estate, sir. Yes, I could lay my life that is the case.”