Coming over from New York he had read Nelson’s shilling edition of the Life of Sir Henry Hawkins. He had read with amazement the story of British credulity expressed in the Tichborne Case. How Arthur Orton, a butcher, scarcely able to write, had imposed himself on the Public as Roger Tichborne, a young aristocrat of good education.
He contrasted his own position with Orton’s.
He was absolutely unassailable.
He went to the cigar box, chose a cigar and lit it.
There was the question of hand writing! That suddenly occurred to him, confronting his newly formed plans. He would have to sign cheques, write letters. A typewriter could settle the latter question, and as for the signature, he possessed a sample of Rochester’s, and would have to imitate it. At the worst he could pretend he had injured his thumb—that excuse would last for some time. “There’s one big thing about the whole business,” said he to himself, “and that is the chap’s eccentricity. Why, if I’m shoved too hard, I can pretend to have lost my memory or my wits—there’s not a blessed card I haven’t either in my hand or up my sleeve, and if worst comes to worst, I can always prove my identity and tell my story.” He was engaged with thoughts like these when the door opened and the servant, bearing a card on a salver, announced that Mr. Voles, the gentleman who had called earlier in the day, had arrived.
“Bring him in,” said Victor. The servant retired and returned immediately ushering in Voles, who entered carrying his hat before him. The stranger was a man of fifty, a tubby man, dressed in a black frock coat, covered, despite the summer weather, by a thin black overcoat with silk facings. His face was evil, thick skinned, yellow, heavy nosed, the hair of the animal was jet black, thin, and presented to the eyes of the gazer a small Disraeli curl upon the forehead of the owner.
The card announced:
Mr. A. S. Voles
12B. Jermyn Street
Voles himself, and unknown to himself, announced a lot of other things.