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Updated: May 23, 2025
You'll, neither of you, bolster up the rascally claim of your worthy confederate, the Tackbun Claimant; and your game with the X-rays, your devil's trick of rotting away a man's arm to destroy tattooed evidence of a rank imposter's guilt is just so much time wasted and just so many pounds sterling thrown away." "What's that?" blustered the colonel. "What do you mean? What are you talking about?
The lost Sir Aubrey Tackbun is dead, my friend, dead as Julius Cæsar, dead beyond the hopes of you and your confederates to revive even the ghost of him now.
Tackbun Claimant? Who's the Tackbun Claimant? Do you realize to whom you are speaking? Fordyce, who and what is this infernally impudent puppy?" "Gently, gently, Colonel. Name's Cleek, if you are anxious to know it." "Cleek? Cleek?" "Precisely, doctor. Cleek of Scotland Yard, Cleek of the Forty Faces, if you want complete details.
Fellow turned up who claimed to be the long-lost Sir Aubrey Tackbun who ran away to sea when a boy some thirty odd years ago and was lost track of entirely. Lost his case at that first trial, and got sent to prison for conspiracy Is out again now. Claims to have new and irrefutable refutable evidence, and is going to have a second try for the title and estates.
"Related, by any chance, to that 'Colonel Goshen' who testified on behalf of the claimant in the great Tackbun case?" "Don't know, I'm sure. Never heard of the case, Mr. Cleek." "Didn't you? It was quite a sensation some eighteen months ago. But you were in India, then, of course.
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