Winston looked steadily in front of him, vacantly noticing the rows of faces turned towards him under the big lamps. "If he had waited a few minutes longer, you would have known," he said. "He is Lance Courthorne."
This time the murmurs implied incredulity, but the man who stood swaying a little with his hand on the chair, and a smile in his half-closed eyes, made an ironical inclination.
"It's evident you don't believe it or wish to. Still, it's true," he said.
One of the men nearest him rose and quietly thrust him into the chair.
"Sit down in the meanwhile," he said dryly. "By and by, Colonel Barrington will talk to you."
Barrington thanked him with a gesture, and glanced at the rest. "One would have preferred to carry out this inquiry more privately," he said, very slowly, but with hoarse distinctness. "Still, you have already heard so much."
Dane nodded. "I fancy you are right, sir. Because we have known and respected the man who has, at least, done a good deal for us, it would be better that we should hear the rest."
Barrington made a little gesture of agreement, and once more fixed his eyes on Winston. "Then will you tell us who you are?"
"A struggling prairie farmer," said Winston quietly. "The son of an English country doctor who died in penury, and one who from your point of view could never have been entitled to more than courteous toleration from any of you."
He stopped, but, for the astonishment was passing, there was negation in the murmurs which followed, while somebody said, "Go on!"