“Who is the fellow?” he demanded.
Prescott braced himself.
“I’ll answer that—Jack Prescott. Mr. Colston stayed at my homestead.”
“And you personated my son? I suppose you had some motive for doing so and must see that we are entitled to an explanation?”
“Yes,” Prescott returned quietly. “This isn’t the place to make it. Hadn’t you better take your friends in?”
They entered the house, which was getting dark, and while the hired man carried in the baggage Leslie lighted a lamp in his sitting-room. It was spacious, roughly paneled in cedar, with an uncovered floor. There were a few chairs scattered about and a plain pine table. Jernyngham sat by the table and the others found seats here and there, except Prescott, who stood quietly opposite the old man. At a curt sign from Jernyngham, Leslie and his wife left the room.
“Mr. Prescott,” Jernyngham began, “you have deceived my friends here and I think they should remain to hear what you have to say, but I will dismiss them if you prefer it. You are responsible to me and I must ask for a full account of your conduct.”
Prescott glanced round the room, which reminded him of a court. Gertrude Jernyngham’s eyes were fixed on him, and there was a hardness that hinted at cruelty in them; she looked very dignified and cold. Mrs. Colston he could not see, but her husband seemed disturbed and uneasy. Muriel leaned forward in her chair, with wonder, apprehension, and pity curiously mingled in her expression. All of them were very still, the silence was disconcerting, but Prescott roused himself to make what defense he could.
“I passed for Cyril Jernyngham at his request,” he said.
“An extraordinary statement!” Jernyngham remarked with ironical incredulity. “May one ask if he gave any reasons for wishing you to do so?”