“And yet,” put in Mr. Caryll, in an indolent, musing voice, “it might be made to look as clear another way.”
Mr. Templeton scowled at him. “The opportunity shall be afforded you,” said he. “Meanwhile—what is your name?”
Mr. Caryll looked whimsically at the secretary a moment; then flung his bomb. “I am Justin Caryll, Sixth Earl of Ostermore, and your very humble servant, Mr. Secretary.”
The effect was ludicrous—from Mr. Caryll's point of view—and yet it was disappointing. Five pairs of dilating eyes confronted him, five gaping mouths. Then her ladyship broke into a laugh.
“The creature's mad—I've long suspected it.” And she meant to be taken literally; his many whimsicalities were explained to her at last. He was, indeed, half-witted, as he now proved.
Mr. Templeton, recovering, smote the table angrily. He thought he had good reason to lose his self-control on this occasion, though it was a matter of pride with him that he could always preserve an unruffled calm under the most trying circumstances. “What is your name, sir?” he demanded again.
“You are hard of hearing, sir, I think. I am Lord Ostermore. Set down that name in the warrant if you are determined to be bubbled by that fellow there and made to look foolish afterwards with my Lord Carteret.”
Mr. Templeton sat back in his chair, frowning; but more from utter bewilderment now than anger.
“Perhaps,” said Mr. Caryll, “if I were to explain, it would help you to see the imposture that is being practiced upon you. As for the allegations that have been made against me—that I am a Jacobite spy and an agent of the Pretender's—” He shrugged, and waved an airy hand. “I scarce think there will remain the need for me to deny them when you have heard the rest.”
Rotherby took a step forward, his face purple, his hands clenched. Her ladyship thrust out a bony claw, clutched at his sleeve, and drew him back and into the chair beside her. “Pho! Charles,” she said; “give the fool rope, and he'll hang himself, never doubt it—the poor, witless creature.”