“Then his handwriting must have totally changed, which I believe is a very unusual thing,” Jernyngham rejoined sarcastically. “I have been shown some documents which he is supposed to have filled in.”
Prescott began to realize that appearances were very strongly against him. He had admitted having once impersonated his friend and it would be difficult to convince those who had heard his confession that he had not done so again, when there was a strong motive for it in the price of the land.
“Well,” he said firmly; “if the handwriting wasn’t Cyril’s, I can’t tell whose it was; it certainly wasn’t mine. There’s one thing I’m convinced of—your son is not dead.”
Jernyngham looked at him; with the veins on his forehead swollen and his face tense with anger, but he held himself in hand.
“You have said so often. I did not believe you; I do not believe you now; but your object in making the statement is easy to understand. I’ve no doubt you realize that you lie open to a very ugly suspicion.”
“No!” a strained voice broke in. “That is not just!”
Looking up, Prescott saw that it was Muriel who had spoken. Her eyes were bright with indignation and her face was hot, but none of the others showed him any sympathy. Colston’s face was grave and troubled, his wife’s expressionless; Gertrude Jernyngham looked more determined and more merciless than her father. She sat very still, coldly watching him.
“Thank you,” he said to Muriel. “It’s comforting to find one person who does not think the worst of me.”
“Silence, sir!” Jernyngham exclaimed with the air of a judge rebuking a prisoner of whose guilt he is convinced. “You cannot be permitted to speak to this lady.”
“I think that is a point for Mrs. Colston to decide, but we’ll let it drop. Out of consideration for you, I’ve answered your questions; but you have gone too far, and this must end.” Prescott’s expression grew as stern as the old man’s and he looked about with pride. “I tell you it must stop! What right have you to fling these infamous hints at me?”