Sir David Forster laughed aloud at this request.

“What! you want to know whether your rival is handsome, I suppose? like a woman, who always commences her inquiries about another woman by asking whether she is pretty.  My dear Fenton, all personal descriptions are vague.  It is almost impossible to furnish a correct catalogue of any man’s features.  Holbrook is just one of those men whom it is most difficult to describe—­not particularly good-looking, nor especially ill-looking; very clever, and with plenty of expression and character in his face.  Older than you by some years, and looking older than he really is.”

“Thanks; but there is not one precise statement in your description.  Is the man dark or fair—­short or tall?”

“Rather dark than fair; rather tall than short.”

“That will do, Sir David,” Gilbert said, starting suddenly to his feet, and looking the Baronet in the face intently.  “The man who robbed me of my promised wife is the man whom I introduced to her; the man who has come between me and all my hopes, who hides himself from my just anger, and skulks in the background under a feigned name, is the one friend whom I have loved above all other men—­John Saltram!”

Sir David faced him without flinching.  If it was acted surprise which appeared upon his countenance at the sound of John Saltram’s name, the acting was perfect.  Gilbert could discover nothing from that broad stare of blank amazement.

“In heaven’s name, what can have put such a preposterous notion into your head?” Sir David asked coolly.

“I cannot tell you.  The conviction has grown upon me, against my own will.  Yes, I have hated myself for being able to suspect my friend.  You do not know how I have loved that man, or how our friendship began at Oxford long ago with something like hero-worship on my side.  I thought that he was born to be great and noble; and heaven knows I have felt the disappointments and shortcomings of his career more keenly than he has felt them himself.  No, Sir David, I don’t think it is possible for any man to comprehend how I have loved John Saltram.”

“And yet, without a shred of evidence, you believe him guilty of betraying you.”

“Will you give me your word of honour that Marian’s husband and John Saltram are not one and the same person?”

“No,” answered Sir David impatiently; “I am tired of the whole business.  You have questioned and cross-questioned me quite long enough, Mr. Fenton, and I have answered you to the best of my ability, and have given you rational advice, which you will of course decline to take.  If you think your friend has wronged you, go to him, and tax him with that wrong.  I wash my hands of the affair altogether, from this moment; but, without wishing to be offensive, I cannot help telling you, that to my mind you are acting very foolishly in this business.”

“I daresay it may seem so to you.  You would think better of me if I could play the stoic, and say, ’She has jilted me, and is dead to me henceforward.’  But I cannot do that.  I have the memory of her peaceful girlhood—­the happy days in which I knew her first—­the generous protector who sheltered her life.  I am pledged to the dead, Sir David.”