who had brought me in the car. "Very remarkable, indeed, but, given one coincidence, not altogether incredible. The question is: Who are you? Who are you?"
"I am Frank Armitage Staples, of course," I replied.
"Yes, yes," he said irritably; "no one is going to doubt that, with your features. But what Frank Staples? That's the point."
"So far as I am concerned," I replied modestly, "I have always been accustomed in Woollambo to regard myself as the Frank Staples."
I saw a questioning glance pass from face to face among some who sat at the table.
"Would you inform us as to your father's name?" asked one politely.
"It was Frank Rupert Staples. He is dead."
"And his father?"
"He possessed the more unusual name of Cedric Oliver."
"Cedric Oliver Staples," slowly and deliberately pronounced the patriarch from the armchair. "Tried at Guildford in the spring of 1826 on a charge of forgery. Found guilty and sentenced to transportation for life. He was my uncle."
"Possibly, sir," I remarked, turning round to face him, "but, so far as I am aware, he never claimed the kinship, nor referred to any of his relations. And in Australia it is not considered etiquette to inquire into the family history of those who come of the early settler stock."
"Look here, this is all very jolly and convivial," put in the other Frank restlessly, "but old Boosey says he must get back by the 5.30, and I'm not keen on staying myself. Frosty sort of welcome it seems to me offhand. Not even a milk-cart to be had at the station, and some
