“The proofs, Mr. Carew, if you please,” said Christopher Burley.
He spoke in a quick, anxious voice.
I handed the three papers to him and a very brief scrutiny of them seemed to satisfy him.
“They are indisputable,” he declared. “They leave no room for doubt.”
He made me a low bow.
“My lord, pray accept my sincere congratulations,” he added. “I am convinced that you are the real Earl of Heathermere.” I tried to thank him, but the words faltered on my lips. I was beginning to comprehend the amazing, wonderful truth.
“As for this man,” went on the law clerk, pointing to Captain Rudstone, “this detected impostor—”
“I am that no longer, sir,” interrupted the captain. “You will please to remember that I have renounced my claim.”
“But why did you conceive such a daring scheme in the first place?” asked Macdonald. “It will be better for you to make a full confession.”
“I am quite willing to do that,” replied Captain Rudstone. “I will not try your patience long—it is a short story. My first meeting with Osmund Maiden was in Quebec, a few days after his arrival from England. There was a certain resemblance between us, and we took a fancy to each other; we decided to cast our fortunes together. Unluckily, however, we had that row in Montreal—it was I who shot Henri Salvat—and this started us off to the wilderness in a hurry. But you are already aware of these facts, of our brief stop at Fort Garry, and of our adventure with the Indians. I was a prisoner among them for months, and finally I escaped to the south, believing that Osmund Maiden was dead. After that I lived, as I have told you, in the States, England and on the Continent.