Mr. Templeton, recovering, smote the table angrily. He thought he had good reason to lose his self-control on this occasion, though it was a matter of pride with him that he could always preserve an unruffled calm under the most trying circumstances. “What is your name, sir?” he demanded again. “You are hard of hearing, sir, I think. I am Lord Ostermore. Set down that name in the warrant if you are determined to be bubbled by that fellow there and made to look foolish afterwards with my Lord Carteret.” Mr. Templeton sat back in his chair, frowning; but more from utter bewilderment now than anger. “Perhaps,” said Mr. Caryll, “if I were to explain, it would help you to see the imposture that is being practiced upon you. As for the allegations that have been made against me--that I am a Jacobite spy and an agent of the Pretender's--” He shrugged, and waved an airy hand. “I scarce think there will remain the need for me to deny them when you have heard the rest.” Rotherby took a step forward, his face purple, his hands clenched. Her ladyship thrust out a bony claw, clutched at his sleeve, and drew him back and into the chair beside her. “Pho! Charles,” she said; “give the fool rope, and he'll hang himself, never doubt it--the poor, witless creature.” Mr. Caryll sauntered over to the secretaire, and leaned an elbow on the top of it, facing all in the room. “I admit, Mr. Secretary,” said he, “that I had occasion to assault Mr. Green, to the end that I might possess myself of the papers he was seeking in this desk.” “Why, then--” began Mr. Templeton. “Patience, sir! I admit so much, but I admit no more. I do not, for instance, admit that the object--the object itself--of my search was such as has been represented.” “What then? What else?” growled Rotherby. “Ay, sir--what else?” quoth Mr. Templeton. “Sir,” said Mr. Caryll, with a sorrowful shake of, the head, “I have already startled you, it seems, by one statement. I beg that you will prepare yourself to be startled by another.” Then he abruptly dropped his languor. “I should think twice, sir,” he advised, “before signing that warrant, were I in your place, to do so would be to render yourself the tool of those who are plotting my ruin, and ready to bear false witness that they may accomplish it. I refer,” and he waved a hand towards the countess and his brother, “to the late Lord Ostermore's mistress and his natural son, there.” In their utter stupefaction at the unexpectedness and seeming wildness of the statement, neither mother nor son could find a word to say. No more could Mr. Templeton for a moment. Then, suddenly, wrathfully: “What are you saying, sir?” he roared. “The truth, sir.” “The truth?” echoed the secretary. “Ay, sir--the truth. Have ye never heard of it?”