‘Well, Mr. Clare, here I am. I have gone out of my own way to put myself at your disposal. What is this wondrous communication you have to make to me?’
‘First, let us discuss your own position.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ exclaimed Desrolles, rising and taking up his hat. ‘I did not come here to talk about that. If you’ve set a trap for me you’ll find you’ve got the wrong customer. I belong to the ferret tribe.’
‘My dear fellow, don’t be in such a hurry,’ said Edward, putting up his white, womanish hand in languid entreaty; ‘as a prelude to what I have got to say I am obliged to speak of your own position with reference to Laura Treverton and her husband, John Treverton, otherwise Jack Chicot.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Simply what I say. John Treverton, squire of Hazlehurst, and Jack Chicot—Bohemian, adventurer, artist in black and white, unsuccessful painter in oils, what you will—are one and the same. It may suit Mr. Treverton to forget that he was ever Jack Chicot; but the story of his past life is not blotted out because he is ashamed of it. You know, and I know, that the present lord of Hazlehurst Manor is Mrs. Evitt’s old lodger.’
‘You must be crazy to suggest such a thing,’ said Desrolles, looking at the other with an air of half stupefied inquiry, as a man in whom he did verily perceive indications of insanity. ‘The two men have not one attribute in common.’
‘If the man I saw talking to you in Long Acre was Chicot, the caricaturist, then Chicot and Treverton are one.’
‘My dear fellow, your eyes played you false. Possibly there may be a kind of likeness, as far as height, figure, complexion, go.’
‘I saw the man’s face at the magazine office, and I’ll swear it was Treverton’s face.’