“Why,” said Leon, with still greater uneasiness and uncertainty in his face and voice, “you are not John Wiggins.”
“Who do you think I am?” asked Wiggins.
“Who? who? Why, you came from Australia.”
“Well, what of that?”
“Well, you are some convict who got acquainted with Dalton out there, and have come back here to try to get control of these estates.”
“But how could I do that? If this were so, do you suppose that Wiggins of Liverpool would allow it?”
“Oh, he has a share in the business. He goes halves with you, perhaps.”
“If he wanted any shares at all in such a transaction, he might have all, and therefore he would be a fool to take half. Your theory, I infer, is somewhat lame. And what of Mrs. Dunbar? Is she an Australian convict too?”
“Mrs. Dunbar?—who is she? What! that crazy housekeeper? She looks as though she may have just been released from some lunatic asylum.”
Wiggins made no immediate reply, and sat for a few moments in thought. Then he looked at Leon and said: