"You didn't cast any doubt on his story," he muttered.
"There was no need," declared Captain Dove. "Let him disprove yours first. It was you who discovered who Sallie should be. I had no idea whose daughter she was—and neither had she. You and Jobling it was who put two and two together and made out four. I don't believe Farish—M'Kissock, as he calls himself now—could better that."
"Don't you believe what he said?" asked Slyne.
"Not me," lied Captain Dove. "The man's mad, that's what's the matter with him. He's probably made the whole thing up, just to get even with us, and knowing that we could do little more than contradict it. But—he didn't know that we have the Chancery Court behind us now. And that makes all the difference. We've won—and he's lost. D'ye see?
"I was scared at first, I'll admit—when he walked in. It was that infernal 'white lady' tale of yours that upset me. But—you don't believe in ghosts! What's wrong with you is sheer funk."
But even that insult seemed to have no immediate effect on Slyne, and Captain Dove got up, growling.
"Here," said he. "Drink this down—and try if you can't muster even a little Dutch courage."
Slyne swallowed, still without a word in retort, the dose of spirit which the old man had poured out for him; and that seemed to restore a little his crippled self-confidence. Some faint spark of hope that all might not yet be lost seemed to have sprung up in his heavy heart. His benumbed brain was apparently beginning to work again. He sat up, with an effort.
"But—how are we to carry on here?" he asked, in a tone which told how very feeble his faith was. "If any such story gets to the ears of—"
"It will get no farther than it has gone," declared Captain Dove with assured emphasis. "If Farish hasn't told that old hag of a sister of his yet, it stays between you and me. We'll make sure of her silence—and his. That will be easy enough."