The doctor arose, not so much angry as astonished, white and
incredulous. "What did you do that for, any way?" he asked, glaring
fiercely at my brother-in-law. Charles was all abject apology. He
began by profusely expressing his regret, and offering to make any
suitable reparation, monetary or otherwise. Then he revealed his
whole hand. He admitted that he was Sir Charles Vandrift, the famous
millionaire, and that he had suffered egregiously from the endless
machinations of a certain Colonel Clay, a machiavellian rogue,
who had hounded him relentlessly round the capitals of Europe. He
described in graphic detail how the impostor got himself up with
wigs and wax, so as to deceive even those who knew him intimately;
and then he threw himself on Dr. Quackenboss's mercy, as a man who
had been cruelly taken in so often that he could not help suspecting
the best of men falsely. Mrs. Quackenboss admitted it was natural to
have suspicions--"Especially," she said, with candour, "as you're
not the first to observe the notable way Elihu's hair seems to
originate from his forehead," and she pulled it up to show us. But
Elihu himself sulked on in the dumps: his dignity was offended.
"_If_ you wanted to know," he said, "you might as well have asked me.
Assault _and_ battery _is_ not the right way to test whether _a_
citizen's hair is primitive or acquired.
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