“What, you mean to say you are young Roger Ingleton?”
“At your grace’s service.”
Tom gave a whistle, half dismay, half amusement. The doctor smiled contemptuously. The duke bit his lip and gazed stolidly at the speaker.
“You are not obliged to believe me,” said the latter jauntily; “only you wanted to know my business in Maxfield, and I have told you. I don’t say I’m the heir, for I understand my father was good enough to cut me out of every penny of his estate. And as for being a paragon of virtue, or the opposite, that’s my affair and no one else’s—eh, your grace?”
His Grace was much disturbed. He had once seen young Roger Ingleton, at that time a mere boy, but retained no distinct memory of him. At the time of the quarrel between father and son he had been abroad, and the news of the lad’s death had been formally communicated as a matter beyond question. Recognition, as far as he was concerned, was impossible.
“You choose a strange time, sir,” said he, “for coming here with this story, when the heir and his guardians are both away.”
“I supposed my brother was here,” said Ratman. “In any case he knows who I am; so does your friend the tutor, Dr Brandram.”
“Oh, why do you stop talking to that hateful man instead of coming, and enjoying the party?” pleaded Jill.
“Ah, my little lady, is that you?” said Ratman advancing.
But his passage was intercepted by the doctor.