“I do. Your uncle’s story looks like an invention. Let me think, was your father’s name Edward Roscoe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And in what year were you born?”
“In the year 1856.”
“At Sacramento?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I feel quite sure that I made your father’s acquaintance in the succeeding year, and your own as well, though you were an infant—that is, you were less than a year old.”
“Did my father say anything of having adopted me?”
“No; on the contrary, he repeatedly referred to you as his child, and your mother also displayed toward you an affection which would have been at least unusual if you had not been her own child.”
“Then you think, sir—” Hector began.