Dr. Somers looked at him intently--into his eyes, in a way Edgar did not understand. “Yes, yes,” he said, “I see--take the wine; take it to please me--Edgar Arden, I order you, take the wine.” “To please you, Doctor,” said Edgar, “by all means.” And when he had drank it, he turned to his old friend with a smile. “But I am not Edgar Arden. I am an impostor. Doctor, do you think I am mad?” Dr. Somers looked at him once more with the same intent gaze. “I don’t know what to make of you,” he said, in a subdued tone. “No more jesting, Edgar, if this is jesting. What is it you mean?” “I am speaking the soberest, saddest truth,” said Edgar. “Clare will tell you; I have no right to call her Clare. I do not know who I am; but Mrs. Arden is clear of all blame, once and for ever. I am not her son.” CHAPTER XVI. To say that the Doctor was utterly confounded by this revelation was to say little. He had not begun so much as to think what it meant when Edgar left him. An impatience which was foreign to his character had come to the young man. He was eager to tell his astounding news; but it irritated him to be doubted, to have to go over and over the same words. He did not show this feeling. He tried hard to keep his temper, to make all the explanations that were wanted; but within him a fire of impatience burned. He rushed away as soon as he could get free, with again that wild desire to be done with it which was the reverse side of his eagerness to tell it. If he could but get away, be clear of the whole matter, plunge into the deep quiet of the unknown, where nobody would wonder that he was not an Arden, where he might call himself anything he pleased! He went up the avenue with feverish speed, noting nothing. Nature had ceased to have power to compose him. He had been swept into a whirlpool of difficulty, from which there could be no escape but in flight; and till his work was done he could not fly. And it seemed to Edgar a long, long time since he rode down between those trees--a very long time, a month, perhaps a year. With all his heart he longed to be able to escape, and yet a certain fascination drew him back, a wondering sense that something more might have happened, that there might be some new incident when he went back to divide his attention with the old---- Perhaps were the bureau searched more closely there might be something else found--something that would contradict the other. All these fancies flashed through his mind as he went on. He was but half-way up the avenue when he met Mr. Fielding coming down. The Rector looked just as he always did--serene, kind, short-sighted--peering at the advancing figure, with a smile of recognition slowly rising over his face. “I know people generally by their walk,” he said, as they met; “but I don’t recognise your walk this morning, Edgar: you are tired? How pale you are, my dear boy! Are you ill?” “Didn’t she tell you?” said Edgar, wearily.