He had got the whole situation in hand. He had told his tale and acted like an honourable man, the fools had disbelieved him and doped him. They had scented the truth but they dared do nothing. Mulhausen and the recovered mine, the Plinlimon letters, Rochester’s past, all these were his bastions, to say nothing of Rochester’s suicide.
The fear of publicity held them in a vice. Even were they to go to America and prove that a man called Jones exactly like the Earl of Rochester had lived in Philadelphia, go to the Savoy and prove that a man exactly like the Earl of Rochester had lived there, produce the clothes he had come home in that night—all of that would lead them, where—to an action at law.
They could not arrest him as an impostor till they had proved him an impostor. To prove that, they would have to turn the family history inside out before a gaping public.
Mr. Church came in.
“Church,” said Jones, “I played a practical joke on—on my people. I met a man called Jones at the Savoy—well, we needn’t go into details, he was very like me, and I told my people for a joke that I was Jones. The fools thought I was mad. They called in two doctors and drugged me and hauled me off to a place. I got out, and here I am back. What do you think of that?”
“Well, my Lord,” said Church, “if I may say it to you, those practical jokes are dangerous things to play—Lord Langwathby—”
“Was he here?”
“He came last night, my Lord, to have a personal explanation about a telegram he said you sent him as a practical joke, some time ago, taking him up to Cumberland.”
“I’ll never play another,” said Jones. “Tell them to bring me some breakfast, and look here, Church, I’ve told my sister to leave the house at once. I want no more of her here. See that her luggage is taken down at once.”
“Yes, my Lord.”