And always he checked them back to facts.

"The fact, man, the irrefragable fact!" he would proclaim triumphantly, when he had brought one of them a cropper.

He bristled with facts.

He tripped them up with facts, ambuscaded them with facts, bombarded them with broadsides of facts.
"You seem to worship at the shrine of fact," Dr.Hammerfield taunted him.
"There is no God but Fact, and Mr.Everhard is its prophet," Dr.
Ballingford paraphrased.
Ernest smilingly acquiesced.
"I'm like the man from Texas," he said.

And, on being solicited, he explained.