Mr. Tertius, who had been gazing at the table while Barthorpe went through these points, suddenly lifted his head and looked at Mr. Halfpenny. His usual nervousness seemed to have left him, and there was something very like a smile of contempt about his lips when he spoke.
“I think, Halfpenny,” he said quietly, “I really think it is time all this extraordinary farce—for it is nothing less!—came to an end. May I be permitted to ask Mr. Barthorpe Herapath a few questions?”
“So far as I am concerned, as many as you please, Tertius,” replied Mr. Halfpenny. “Whether he’ll answer them or not is another matter. He ought to.”
“I shall answer them if I please, and I shall not answer them if I don’t want to,” said Barthorpe sullenly. “You can put them, anyway. But they’ll make no difference—I know what I’m talking about.”
“So do I,” said Mr. Tertius. “And really, as we come here to get at the truth, it will be all the better for everybody concerned if you do answer my questions. Now—you say I am in reality Arthur Wynne, the father of your cousin, the brother-in-law of Jacob Herapath. What you have said about Arthur John Wynne is unfortunately only too true. It is true that he erred and was punished—severely. In due course he went to Portland. I want to ask you what became of him afterwards?—you say you have full knowledge.”
“You mean, what became of you afterwards,” sneered Barthorpe. “I know when you left Portland. You left it for London—and you came to London to be sheltered, under your assumed name, by Jacob Herapath.”
“No more than that?” asked Mr. Tertius.
“That’s enough,” answered Barthorpe. “You left Portland in April, 1897; you came to London when you were discharged; in June of that year you’d taken up your residence under Jacob Herapath’s roof. And it’s no use your trying to bluff me—I’ve traced your movements!”
“With the aid, no doubt, of Mr. Burchill there,” observed Mr. Tertius, dryly. “But——”
Burchill drew himself up.