Bertram raised his eyebrows in astonishment.
"I was born in India," he said; "I was sent home when I was little more than a baby."
"You don't remember your Indian life, nor your—your—father?"
"Of course I remember my father, sir. I was over twenty when he died."
"Ah, yes, your reputed father. You cannot possibly recall, you have no shadowy remembrance of another who bore the name?"
"Good God, Mr. Ingram! what do you mean?"
"Have you any memory? Answer me."
"No, sir, not the faintest. Is this a dream?"
"My poor lad, I don't wonder that you are staggered. Your mother could not bring herself to tell you. She has borne much for your sake, Bertram; you must be tender to her, gentle. She committed sin, she has gone through terrible hours for you. She was wrong, of course; but her motive—you must respect her motive, Loftus Bertram."
"I am in a dream," said Bertram. "General Bertram not my father! Whose son am I then? What is my name? Who am I? Good God, sir, speak! Get me out of this horrible nightmare."