Maitland, alias Marbury. I made him confess last night that he knew this dead man to be John Maitland."
"You did!"
"I did. And now, Breton, since it's got to come out, we'll have the truth. Pull yourself together—get your nerves ready, for you'll have to stand a shock or two. But I know what I'm talking about—I can prove every word I'm going to say to you. And first let me ask you a few questions. Do you know anything about your parentage?"
"Nothing—beyond what Mr. Elphick has told me."
"And what was that?"
"That my parents were old friends of his, who died young, leaving me unprovided for, and that he took me up and looked after me."
"And he's never given you any documentary evidence of any sort to prove the truth of that story?"
"Never! I never questioned his statement. Why should I?"
"You never remember anything of your childhood—I mean of any person who was particularly near you in your childhood?"
"I remember the people who brought me up from the time I was three years old. And I have just a faint, shadowy recollection of some woman, a tall, dark woman, I think, before that."
"Miss Baylis," said Spargo to himself. "All right, Breton," he went on aloud. "I'm going to tell you the truth. I'll tell it to you straight out and give you all the explanations afterwards. Your real name is not Breton at all. Your real name is Maitland, and you're
