“What I have to say is this,” replied the doctor, still unconvinced, “You have favoured us, squire, with a most libellous paragraph, for which the reporter, whoever he may be, deserves to be prosecuted, as the statements are built on hearsay, and traduces a man whom we regarded, until the balloonists presented themselves, as a friend; and how do we know but what the balloonist’s financier is as different from Falcon as chalk is to cheese?”
“What? After a sight of his photos and his shadows at the Crystal Palace, besides personal evidence of an uncontrovertible character?” asked the squire, somewhat irritated.
“Doctor Peters!” exclaimed Miss Dove, “I really haven’t patience with you! In the face of such evidence as we have had, it is folly to persist in bolstering up an untenable position.”
“And I will take leave,” said the squire, “in support of my daughter’s spirited remarks, to put one question to you.”
“Well, let me hear it, squire.”
“Did you send a telegram to Falcon, at Sydenham, after the balloon came down here?”
“I did, Squire Dove, believing that he was straight and true to you, to your daughter and to me.”
“Then you have been the victim of an impostor, and why not own to it?”
“I am not going to do that at present, squire, for how do I know but what Falcon may walk in and scatter like chaff before the wind all the unfair conclusions that have been arrived at in his absence?”
“Falcon will never appear here again,” said Miss Dove. “However, there is a knock at the door.”