“It’s quite possible, no doubt,” sneered Mr Markham. “I don’t trouble to remember all my fencing instructors.”
“Then of a certainty you are not a pupil of mine,” said my lord. “Me you could never forget. For those whom I taught are masters of fence. It goes without saying. I am incomparable. I have no equal in the art!”
Again March broke in. “I’d give something to hear the story of your life, Barham!” he said, hugely entertained.
Rensley flushed. “His name’s not Barham!” he said furiously. “He’s the impostor I always said he was!”
March froze to instant haughtiness. “He has at least the advantage of you in the matter of good manners, Rensley,” he said.
Public opinion veered round in favour of the old gentleman.
“It’s very, very deplorable,” Mr Devereux said, with a mournful shake of the head. “But he might be all these damned bourgeois things and still remain Tremaine of Barham.”
“You’re pleased to give him countenance, my lord, but you shall see him exposed!” Rensley snapped.
“But expose me!” cried the old gentleman, and threw wide his arms. “I am here to answer you. Who then am I?”
“Good God, am I to know who you are?” exclaimed Rensley. “But you are not Tremaine! Why, you couldn’t tell me a thing about the family that’s not known to the whole world!”