“Ay, sir—the truth. Have ye never heard of it?”
Mr. Templeton sat back again. “I begin to think,” said he, surveying through narrowing eyes the slender graceful figure before him, “that her ladyship is right that you are mad; unless—unless you are mad of the same madness that beset Ulysses. You remember?”
“Let us have done,” cried Rotherby in a burst of anger, leaping to his feet. “Let us have done, I say! Are we to waste the day upon this Tom o' Bedlam? Write him down as Caryll—Justin Caryll—'tis the name he's known by; and let Green see to the rest.”
Mr. Templeton made an impatient sound, and poised his pen.
“Ye are not to suppose, sir,” Mr. Caryll stayed him, “that I cannot support my statements. I have by me proofs—irrefragable proofs of what I say.”
“Proofs?” The word seemed to come from, every member of that little assembly—if we except Mr. Green, whose face was beginning to betray his uneasiness. He was not so ready as the others to believe, that Mr. Caryll was mad. For him, the situation asked some other explanation.
“Ay—proofs,” said Mr. Caryll. He had drawn the case from his pocket again. From this he took the birth-certificate, and placed it before Mr. Templeton, “Will you glance at that, sir—to begin, with?—”
Mr. Templeton complied. His face became more and more grave. He looked at Mr. Caryll; then at Rotherby, who was scowling, and at her ladyship, who was breathing hard. His glance returned to Mr. Caryll.
“You are the person designated here?” he inquired.
“As I can abundantly prove,” said Mr. Caryll. “I have no lack of friends in London who will bear witness to that much.”