“You are talking nonsense—nonsense—lurid idiocy! Now, listen to me. I will make a confession—if you wish to call it by that name. I did not read those evidences because I had no occasion to—I was made familiar with them in the time of this claimant’s father and of my own father forty years ago. This fellow’s predecessors have kept mine more or less familiar with them for close upon a hundred and fifty years. The truth is, the rightful heir did go to America, with the Fairfax heir or about the same time—but disappeared—somewhere in the wilds of Virginia, got married, and began to breed savages for the Claimant market; wrote no letters home; was supposed to be dead; his younger brother softly took possession; presently the American did die, and straightway his eldest product put in his claim—by letter—letter still in existence—and died before the uncle in-possession found time—or maybe inclination—to—answer. The infant son of that eldest product grew up—long interval, you see—and _he_ took to writing letters and furnishing evidences. Well, successor after successor has done the same, down to the present idiot. It was a succession of paupers; not one of them was ever able to pay his passage to England or institute suit. The Fairfaxes kept their lordship alive, and so they have never lost it to this day, although they live in Maryland; their friend lost his by his own neglect. You perceive now, that the facts in this case bring us to precisely this result: morally the American tramp _is_ rightful earl of Rossmore; legally he has no more right than his dog. There now—are you satisfied?” There was a pause, then the son glanced at the crest carved in the great oaken mantel and said, with a regretful note in his voice: “Since the introduction of heraldic symbols,—the motto of this house has been _Suum cuique_—to every man his own. By your own intrepidly frank confession, my lord, it is become a sarcasm: If Simon Lathers—” “Keep that exasperating name to yourself! For ten years it has pestered my eye—and tortured my ear; till at last my very footfalls time themselves to the brain-racking rhythm of _Simon Lathers!—Simon Lathers! —Simon Lathers!_ And now, to make its presence in my soul eternal, immortal, imperishable, you have resolved to—to—what is it you have resolved to do?” “To go to Simon Lathers, in America, and change places with him.” “What? Deliver the reversion of the earldom into his hands?” “That is my purpose.” “Make this tremendous surrender without even trying the fantastic case in the Lords?” “Ye—s—” with hesitation and some embarrassment. “By all that is amazing, I believe you are insane, my son. See here —have you been training with that ass again—that radical, if you prefer the term, though the words are synonymous—Lord Tanzy, of Tollmache?” The son did not reply, and the old lord continued: