An old friend, whom I had not seen for years, invited me down to his box in the country for a weeks’ shooting. One day as we were standing before the Crown Arms, a carriage rolled up to the door. I gave a great start. Leonard Chapman hurriedly alighted and went inside.
“Who is that man?” I asked the moment I recovered my voice.
“The young Earl. He only came into the estate a few months since. His life has been quite a romance. The Black Earl, his father, quarreled with him some ten years since and turned him out of the Hall. The trouble arose over the Vicar’s daughter, whom the young man wished to marry. For nine years not a word was heard from the son. The Black Earl had lived a fast life, but after the quarrel he redoubled his pace and when he died everything was mortgaged to its full value. After his death the Jews swarmed down like the plagues of Egypt. Three months later the heir suddenly appeared. The debts were paid and what is still better, he married the girl, though it is said he never wrote her a line during his absence.”
I entered the Arms and found the Earl speaking to a game keeper. As he turned to leave the room, I said: “Permit me to congratulate you, Mr. Chapman, I felt certain that the natives had turned you over to the great majority.”
He raised his eye-glass and gave me a well-bred stare.
“Chapman you say? I am the Earl of Ibster.”
“So I am informed, but in New Guinea you were Mr. Leonard Chapman.”
“How many cases of mistaken identity are constantly occurring,” he said, “the Tichborne case being one in point. Excuse me, sir, I trust that you will yet be able to find your New Guinea friend, Mr. Chapman.” He raised his hat, bowed, entered the carriage and was driven leisurely away.
PRINTED FOR THE PUBLISHER BY
H. B. DONLY, SIMCOE, ONT.