I claim
my name is Cavendish, and it is; but I've never once said I was Fred
Cavendish of New York. If you must know, I am Ferdinand Cavendish of
Los Angeles."
Westcott permitted the man's head to rest back on the floor, and he
arose to his feet. He felt dazed, stunned, as though stricken a sudden
blow. His gaze wandered from the startled face of the motionless girl
to the figure of the man outstretched on the floor at his feet.
"Good God!" he exclaimed. "What can all this mean? You came from New
York City?"
"Yes; I had been there a month attending to some business."
"And when you left for the coast, you took the midnight train on the
New York Central?"
"Yes. I had intended taking an earlier one, but was delayed."
"You bought return tickets at the station?"
"No; I had return tickets; they had to be validated."
"Then your name was signed to them; what is your usual signature?"
"F. Cavendish."
"I thought so. Stella, this has all been a strange blunder, but it is
perfectly clear how it happened. That man Beaton evidently had never
seen Frederick Cavendish.
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