“I’m sorry to hear that. And you enlisted under your present name of Ratman, of course?”
“My present name is Ingleton. If I called myself Ratman, that was because I didn’t want my father to hear of me. I never told any one my real name.”
“Seems to me,” said the Mayor, “it’s odd how your medical adviser on the field of battle found out where to write home to say you were dead.”
“It is still more odd, sir,” said the tutor, fixing the claimant with his glass, “that this Mr Fastnet (who, you will be glad to hear, has also come to life again, was still in good health when my ward saw him a few weeks ago) retains a vivid recollection of the runaway son having entertained him for a year at his own lodgings; at the end of which time the prodigal, so far from enlisting, took to the stage, and spent another year, at least, with a company of strolling players.
“We have your unfortunate’s nephew’s story,” proceeded the tutor, “carefully traced up to a certain point, and if either you or Mr Ratman are interested in the matter, we can produce our witnesses. Your memory is a treacherous one, Robert Ratman. It is no use asking you, I fear, what became of you after a certain riot in Boulogne when you, as the Ghost in ‘Hamlet,’ and your fellow-tragedians were mobbed for not paying the rent of your hall?”
Mr Ratman, who during this cross-examination had passed through all the stages from blustering rage to abject discomfiture, sank back on his chair and turned a livid face to his questioner. He had sense enough to see that the game was up; and not being an actor himself, he was at a loss to conceal his defeat. The tutor’s cold, keen gaze took the heart out of him.
“Lying dog!” snarled he, “I’ve had enough of your questions. You think yourself clever, but I’ll be even with you yet. I’ll ruin the lot of you—you and your fellow-scoundrel and his brats, who don’t know yet what it is to have a felon for a father. You’ll be sorry for this.”
So saying, he took up his bag, and with the best swagger he could assume slunk from the room.
“See—stay here, young man,” said the Mayor excitedly; “there’s something else.”
But he was gone. The outer door slammed to and his footsteps died gradually away down the street.