His disclaimer seemed so evidently sincere that the sense of the company was already in sympathy with the victim of this outrageous intrusion, when—alas for him!—his aunt chose that fatal moment, of all others, to rush out of her chronic background.
"Andrew!" she cried, her cheeks suddenly very pink, her eyes strangely excited, her voice trembling with the fervor of her appeal. "He must be—oh, he must be! Look—look at the likeness to your father! Oh, Andrew, what if it is irregular; surely you wouldn't deny the living image of poor Heriot!"
"By Gad! So he is," exclaimed Lord Kilconquar.
A general murmur instinctively confirmed this verdict. They wished to be charitable—but what a family resemblance!
"I—I—I tell you it's a put-up job!" stammered their host.
"Who put it up, father?" asked the strange youth plaintively.
Lord Kilconquar shook his head, and again the startled company followed his lead.
"Look, Andrew!" cried his aunt, pointing to a tinted photograph of James Heriot Walkingshaw at the age of twenty, which hung above the mantelpiece. "Oh, just look at the resemblance!"
The young man regarded this work of art with evident emotion.