“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Jones, “think I was a baby. I tell you I’m all right—what on earth do you mean—upon my soul, you’re like a lot of children.”
He tried to pass Simms.
“You must not leave this room yet,” said Simms. “Pray quiet yourself.”
“You mean to say you’ll stop me?”
“Yes.”
Then in a flash he knew. These men had not been sent for to attend the Dowager Countess of Rochester, they were alienists, and they considered him to be Rochester—Rochester gone mad.
Right from the first start of his confession he had been taken for a mad man, that was why Venetia had said nothing, that was why the old lady had fainted, that was why his wife—at least Rochester’s wife, had run from the room like a blind woman.
He stood appalled for a moment, before this self-evident fact. Then he spoke:
“Open that door—get away from that door.”
“Sit down and quiet yourself,” said Simms, staring him full in the eye, “you—will—not—leave-this—house.”