"James was my younger brother. He misconducted himself gravely in England and was sent abroad. After a brief career of spendthrift extravagance in Australia, we never heard of him again. You may be his son, but then, on the other hand, of course, you may not. I have no means of judging."
"I give you my word," I answered, a little nettled by his speech and the insinuation contained in it; "but if you want further proof, I've got a Latin book in my portmanteau with my father's name upon the fly-leaf, and an inscription in his own writing setting forth that it was given by him to me."
"A Catullus?"
"Exactly! a Catullus."
"Then I'll have to trouble you to return it to me at your earliest convenience. The book is my property: I paid eighteenpence for it on the 3rd of July, 1833, in the shop of John Burns, Fleet Street, London. My brother took it from me a week later, and I have not been able to afford myself another copy since."
"You admit then that the book is evidence of my father's identity?"
"I admit nothing. What do you want with me? What do you come here for? You must see for yourself that I am too poor to be of any service to you, and I have long since lost any public interest I may once have possessed."
"I want neither one nor the other. I am home from Australia on a trip, and I have a sufficient competence to render me independent of any one."
"Ah! That puts a different complexion on the matter. You say you hail from Australia? And what may you have been doing there?"
"Gold-mining—pearling—trading!"