“As I said before, I had, up to last week, a perfect belief that my father, Jason Templin, was dead and buried for three years.”
“You were not present at his death and burial?”
“No. I have been in Europe for four years.”
“From whom did you get the news of his death?”
“From my guardian, and my father’s most intimate friend.”
“His name?”
“Lawrence Lonsdale.”
“Where does he live?”
“In San Francisco.”
“Where your father lived, and—is supposed to have died?”