Paul Ritson raised his head; Greta sunk into a chair beneath him. He was not sworn.
The warder in charge put in an entry from the books of the prison. It ran: "Paul Drayton, five feet eleven inches, brown hair and eyes, aged thirty, licensed victualer, born in London, convicted of robbery at the scene of a railway accident."
"Does that entry properly describe you?" asked the judge.
The convict's eyes wandered.
"What's going on?" he said, in a tone of bewilderment.
"Attend, my man. Are you Paul Ritson, the eldest son of the late Allan Ritson?"
"Why do you want to know?" said the convict.
"It befits a witness who is permitted to come from the scene of a degrading punishment to give a prompt and decisive answer. What is your name, sir?"
"Find it out."
"My man," said the judge, more suavely, "we sit here in the name of the law, and the law could wish to stand your friend." (The convict laughed bitterly.) "Pray help us to a decision in the present perplexing case by a few frank answers. If you are Paul Drayton, you go back to Portland to complete the term of your imprisonment. If it can be proved that you are Paul Ritson, your case will be laid before the home officials, with the result that you will be liberated and re-established in your estate. First of all, which is your name—Paul Drayton or Paul Ritson?"