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           Herehesatedown,andbademebeseated;thoughIthoughthelookedalittleruefullyfromhiscleanchairtomymuddyrags.“Andnow,”sayshe,“ifyouhaveanybusiness,praybebriefandcomeswiftlytothepoint.NecgeminobellumTrojanumorditurabovo—doyouunderstandthat?”sayshe,withakeenlook.

           “IwillevendoasHoracesays,sir,”Ianswered,smiling,“andcarryyouinmediasres.”Henoddedasifhewaswellpleased,andindeedhisscrapofLatinhadbeensettotestme.Forallthat,andthoughIwassomewhatencouraged,thebloodcameinmyfacewhenIadded:“IhavereasontobelievemyselfsomerightsontheestateofShaws.”

           Hegotapaperbookoutofadrawerandsetitbeforehimopen.“Well?”saidhe.

           ButIhadshotmyboltandsatspeechless.

           “Come,come,Mr.Balfour,”saidhe,“youmustcontinue.Wherewereyouborn?”

           “InEssendean,sir,”saidI,“theyear1733,the12thofMarch.”

           Heseemedtofollowthisstatementinhispaperbook;butwhatthatmeantIknewnot.“Yourfatherandmother?”saidhe.

           “MyfatherwasAlexanderBalfour,schoolmasterofthatplace,”saidI,“andmymotherGracePitarrow;IthinkherpeoplewerefromAngus.”

           “Haveyouanypapersprovingyouridentity?”askedMr.Rankeillor.

           “No,sir,”saidI,“buttheyareinthehandsofMr.Campbell,theminister,andcouldbereadilyproduced.Mr.Campbell,too,wouldgivemehisword;andforthatmatter,Idonotthinkmyunclewoulddenyme.”

           “MeaningMr.EbenezerBalfour?”sayshe.

           “Thesame,”saidI.