We learned at the hotel that night, curiously enough, that there
really _was_ a Dr. Polperro, a distinguished art critic, whose
name, we didn't doubt, our impostor had been assuming.
Next morning, when we reached the court, an inspector met us with a
very long face. "Look here, gentlemen," he said, "I'm afraid you've
committed a very serious blunder. You've made a precious bad mess of
it. You've got yourselves into a scrape; and, what's worse, you've
got us into one also. You were a deal too smart with your sworn
information. We've made inquiries about this gentleman, and we find
the account he gives of himself is perfectly correct. His name _is_
Polperro; he's a well-known art critic and collector of pictures,
employed abroad by the National Gallery. He was formerly an official
in the South Kensington Museum, and he's a C.B. and LL.D., very
highly respected. You've made a sad mistake, that's where it is; and
you'll probably have to answer a charge of false imprisonment, in
which I'm afraid you have also involved our own department."
Charles gasped with horror. "You haven't let him out," he cried, "on
those absurd representations? You haven't let him slip through your
hands as you did that murderer fellow?"
"Let him slip through our hands?" the inspector cried.
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