"I never heard that
name before."
Miss Donovan came forward, the lamp in her hand, the light shining full
in her face.
"But you told me you were Mr. Cavendish," she exclaimed, "and Mr.
Westcott was an old friend of his--surely you must remember?"
He looked up at her, and endeavoured to smile, yet for the moment did
not answer. He seemed fascinated by the picture she made, as though
some vision had suddenly appeared before him.
"I--I remember you," he said at last. "You--you are Miss Donovan; I'll
never forget you; but I never saw this man before--I'm sure of that."
"And I am equally convinced as to the truth of that remark," returned
Westcott, "but why did you call yourself Cavendish?"
"Because that is my name--why shouldn't I?"
"Why, see here, man," and Westcott's voice no longer concealed his
indignation, "you no more resemble Fred Cavendish than I do; there is
not a feature in common between you."
"Fred Cavendish?"
"Certainly; of New York; who do you think we were talking about?"
"I've had no chance to think; you jump on me here, and insist I'm a
liar, without even explaining what the trouble is all about.
Pages:
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413