The knight was leaning forward now, his eyes strained, his forehead beaded with perspiration, and his breathing heavy.
"Read on," he begged hoarsely.
His son, Jocelyn Marleigh, is the bearer of this letter, the man whom he has injured and who detests him, the youth with whom he has, by a curious chance, been in much close association, and whom he has known as Kenneth Stewart.
"God!" gasped Crispin.

Then with sudden vigour, "Oh, 'tis a lie," he cried, "a fresh invention of that lying brain to torture me." Hogan held up his hand.
"There is a little more," he said, and continued: Should he doubt this, bid him look closely into the lad's face, and ask him, after he has scrutinized it, what image it evokes.

Should he still doubt thereafter, thinking the likeness to which he has been singularly blind to be no more than accidental, bid them strip the lad's right foot.

It bears a mark that I think should convince him.

For the rest, honoured sir, I beg you to keep all information touching his parentage from the boy himself, wherein I have weighty ends to serve.