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.  “I only wish he would.  There’s no chance of that, unfortunately.  He’s in the court there, this moment, breathing out fire and slaughter against you both; and we’re here to protect you if he should happen to fall upon you.  He’s been locked up all night on your mistaken affidavits, and, naturally enough, he’s mad with anger.”

“If you haven’t let him go, I’m satisfied,” Charles answered.  “He’s a fox for cunning.  Where is he?  Let me see him.”

We went into the court.  There we saw our prisoner conversing amicably, in the most excited way, with the magistrate (who, it seems, was a personal friend of his); and Charles at once went up and spoke to them.  Dr. Polperro turned round and glared at him through his pince-nez.

“The only possible explanation of this person’s extraordinary and incredible conduct,” he said, “is, that he must be mad—­and his secretary equally so.  He made my acquaintance, unasked, on a glass seat on the King’s Road; invited me to go on his coach to Lewes; volunteered to buy a valuable picture of me; and then, at the last moment, unaccountably gave me in charge on this silly and preposterous trumped-up accusation.  I demand a summons for false imprisonment.”

Suddenly it began to dawn upon us that the tables were turned.  By degrees it came out that we had made a mistake.  Dr. Polperro was really the person he represented himself to be, and had been always.  His picture, we found out, was the real Maria Vanrenen, and a genuine Rembrandt, which he had merely deposited for cleaning and restoring at the suspicious dealer’s.  Sir J. H. Tomlinson had been imposed upon and cheated