even--and certainly not for at least thirty
years? Of course I didn't!--impossible!"

CHAPTER XXVII

THE BANK BALANCE

It was now Mr. Portlethorpe and I who looked at each other--with a mutual
questioning. What was Mr. Lindsey hinting, suggesting? And Mr.
Portlethorpe suddenly turned on him with a direct inquiry.

"What is it you are after, Lindsey?" he asked. "There's something in
your mind."

"A lot," answered Mr. Lindsey. "And before I let it out, I think we'd
better fully inform Mrs. Ralston of everything that's happened, and of
how things stand, up to and including this moment. This is the position,
Mrs. Ralston, and the facts"--and he went on to give his caller a brief
but complete summary of all that he and Mr. Portlethorpe had just talked
over. "You now see how matters are," he concluded, at the end of his
epitome, during his delivery of which the lady had gradually grown more
and more portentous of countenance. "Now,--what do you say?"

Mrs. Ralston spoke sharply and decisively.

"Precisely what I have felt inclined to say more than once of late!" she
answered. "I'm beginning to suspect that the man who calls himself Sir
Gilbert Carstairs is not Sir Gilbert Carstairs at all! He's an
impostor!"

In spite of my subordinate position as a privileged but inferior member
of the conference, I could not help letting out a hasty exclamation of
astonishment at that. I was thoroughly and genuinely astounded--such a
notion as that had never once occurred to me. An impostor!--not the real
man? The idea was amazing--and Mr. Portlethorpe found it amazing, too,
and he seconded my exclamation with another, and emphasized it with an
incredulous laugh.

"My dear madam!" he said deprecatingly. "Really! That's impossible!"

But Mr. Lindsey, calmer than ever, nodded his head confidently.

"I'm absolutely of Mrs. Ralston's opinion," he declared. "What she
suggests I believe to be true. An impostor!"

Mr. Portlethorpe flushed and began to look very uneasy.

"Really!" he repeated. "Really, Lindsey!--you forget that I examined into
the whole thing! I saw all the papers--letters, documents--Oh, the
suggestion is--you'll pardon me, Mrs. Ralston--ridiculous! No man could
have been in possession of those documents unless he'd been the real
man--the absolute Simon Pure! Why, my dear lady, he produced letters
written by yourself, when you were a little girl--and--and all sorts of
little private matters. It's impossible