“Give me those papers belonging to Howard Milmarsh. They are of no use to you now.”
“How do you know?” grinned Lampton, recovering his equanimity a little. “A man with those letters and other documents would have no difficulty in proving himself the real Howard Milmarsh, especially when nature had made them so much alike that it is difficult to tell one from the other.”
“Give me the papers!” repeated Nick, apparently undisturbed by what the other had said. “I shall produce the real Howard Milmarsh when the time comes, never fear.”
“I don’t know now what you’ve brought me up here for,” complained Lampton wearily. “I’ve had a pleasant smoke—this cigar is excellent—but I would rather have been left alone, to spend my evening in my own way. What is the game?”
“I’ll tell you,” replied Nick, leaning easily back in his chair and placing the end of his cigar in an ash tray. “It’s a pretty story, and some people would call it a romance.”
“Drive on!”
“Howard Milmarsh disappeared a few years ago, just after his father died. Howard did not know of his father’s death, but he knows of it now. He hesitates to come back and claim his estate for reasons I need not repeat.”
“No, you need not repeat them,” broke out Lampton. “I know them well enough. Keep on talking.”
“So you and your rascally friend, Louden Powers, decided to produce a Howard Milmarsh, who might claim the property, giving you and Powers each a fair share—or what you would consider a fair share—of the estate.”
“That’s nonsense, Mr. Carter. Who’d believe such a wild tale as that?”