_Tom._ Sir, a lie has ever been my scorn and aversion, and an imposture my deepest abhorrence. _Enter _Servant_._ Take this to the address at once. [_Exit _Servant_._ _O’Fi._ Effingham--Mrs. Effingham--Matilda--Bulstrode--Whipple--all of ye--come here! (_To TOM._) Ye’ve determined to inform on me grey hairs--I’ll be first in the field anyhow--mind that now. _Enter all the characters from different doors; BULSTRODE and CAROLINE holding back TOM, WHIPPLE and MATILDA holding back O’FIPP._ _Mrs. Eff._ What--what is the clamour? _Mat._ Papa, dear, what’s he bin doin’ to ye? _O’Fi._ This man--who has passed himself off as a major-general--he’s a swindler--an imposthor--he’s deceived us all--he’s practised on our inexperience. _Car._ Arthur--Arthur--speak--what, oh, what is this? _Mat._ Don’t call him Arthur--his name’s Tom--Tom. _Car._ Tomtom? Impossible. Tell them, Arthur, that it is false. Tell them that you are not--you cannot be Tomtom! _O’Fi._ His name’s Tom Cobb. Tom Cobb, Mr. Bulstrode--and he’s a swindlin’ apothecary--the man you’ve been advertising for these six months. [_CAROLINE faints in MR. and MRS. EFFINGHAM’S arms._ _Bul._ Amazement! _Mr. Eff._ Monster--once more behold your work! _Mrs. Eff._ Viper! Creeping, crawling, unadulterated viper! _Tom._ I am Tom Cobb, M.R.C.S.; there’s my card--“Tom Cobb, 6.” (_Producing handkerchief._) Lead me away. _Bul._ This is a day of great events. We have sought you everywhere for six months. _Tom._ I know you have. Your advertisement has been the nightmare of my life. _Bul._ Amazement! There was a nameless old man, who bore so strong a resemblance to you, that scoffers called him by your name. He died in squalor, barely six months since. _Tom._ All is over--lead me away! _Bul._ He was supposed to have much money in the house, though not a penny could be found. But besides this untold gold, there was standing in his name a sum amounting to £12,000! _Tom._ I know nothing about the £12,000! But I am amenable to the law. Take me to my dungeon! _Bul._ No dungeon yawns for you, oh, happy sir. Wealth--wealth waits you open-armed! _All._ What! _Bul._ You had a father once--that father yet another of his own, the aged man so strangely like yourself. That aged person had a son--that son another son--that son your father, and that other son yourself! _Tom._ Then--I am the old man’s grandson! _Bul._ That is the same idea in vulgar phrase. You are his grandson and his heir-at-law. _Car._ (_reviving_). My poet-surgeon, and my old, old love! (_Embracing him._) _Mrs. Eff._ My son! _Bul._ My brother! _Tom._ Well, Colonel, I must trouble you to hand over the property. If it’s inconvenient---- _O’Fi._ It is. (_From behind his handkerchief._) _Tom._ Well, I’m sorry, that’s all. _O’Fi._ Maybe ye’re sorry, sorr; but ye’re not so sorry as I am, I’ll go bail!