“Consider the subject, Mr. Hartright, from your own point of view,” he said.  “If you are right about Sir Percival Glyde and Count Fosco (which I don’t admit, mind), every imaginable difficulty would be thrown in the way of your getting fresh evidence.  Every obstacle of litigation would be raised—­every point in the case would be systematically contested—­and by the time we had spent our thousands instead of our hundreds, the final result would, in all probability, be against us.  Questions of identity, where instances of personal resemblance are concerned, are, in themselves, the hardest of all questions to settle—­the hardest, even when they are free from the complications which beset the case we are now discussing.  I really see no prospect of throwing any light whatever on this extraordinary affair.  Even if the person buried in Limmeridge churchyard be not Lady Glyde, she was, in life, on your own showing, so like her, that we should gain nothing, if we applied for the necessary authority to have the body exhumed.  In short, there is no case, Mr. Hartright—­ there is really no case.”

I was determined to believe that there was a case, and in that determination shifted my ground, and appealed to him once more.

“Are there not other proofs that we might produce besides the proof of identity?” I asked.

“Not as you are situated,” he replied.  “The simplest and surest of all proofs, the proof by comparison of dates, is, as I understand, altogether out of your reach.  If you could show a discrepancy between the date of the doctor’s certificate and the date of Lady Glyde’s journey to London, the matter would wear a totally different aspect, and I should be the first to say, Let us go on.”

“That date may yet be recovered, Mr. Kyrle.”

“On the day when it is recovered, Mr. Hartright, you will have a case.  If you have any prospect, at this moment, of getting at it—­ tell me, and we shall see if I can advise you.”

I considered.  The housekeeper could not help us—­Laura could not help us—­Marian could not help us.  In all probability, the only persons in existence who knew the date were Sir Percival and the Count.

“I can think of no means of ascertaining the date at present,” I said, “because I can think of no persons who are sure to know it, but Count Fosco and Sir Percival Glyde.”

Mr. Kyrle’s calmly attentive face relaxed, for the first time, into a smile.

“With your opinion of the conduct of those two gentlemen,” he said, “you don’t expect help in that quarter, I presume?  If they have combined to gain large sums of money by a conspiracy, they are not likely to confess it, at any rate.”

“They may be forced to confess it, Mr. Kyrle.”

“By whom?”

“By me.”

We both rose.  He looked me attentively in the face with more appearance of interest than he had shown yet.  I could see that I had perplexed him a little.