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He would make good where Rochester had failed, meet the difficulties that had destroyed the other, face them, overcome them.

His position was unassailable.

Coming over from New York he had read Nelson’s shilling edition of the Life of Sir Henry Hawkins. He had read with amazement the story of British credulity expressed in the Tichborne Case. How Arthur Orton, a butcher, scarcely able to write, had imposed himself on the Public as Roger Tichborne, a young aristocrat of good education.

He contrasted his own position with Orton’s.

He was absolutely unassailable.

He went to the cigar box, chose a cigar and lit it.

There was the question of hand writing! That suddenly occurred to him, confronting his newly formed plans. He would have to sign cheques, write letters. A typewriter could settle the latter question, and as for the signature, he possessed a sample of Rochester’s, and would have to imitate it. At the worst he could pretend he had injured his thumb—that excuse would last for some time. “There’s one big thing about the whole business,” said he to himself, “and that is the chap’s eccentricity. Why, if I’m shoved too hard, I can pretend to have lost my memory or my wits—there’s not a blessed card I haven’t either in my hand or up my sleeve, and if worst comes to worst, I can always prove my identity and tell my story.” He was engaged with thoughts like these when the door opened and the servant, bearing a card on a salver, announced that Mr. Voles, the gentleman who had called earlier in the day, had arrived.