whole combination of small, indefinable qualities and movements and repressions which proved it.

“I should never have mistaken him for anything else,” thought Mr. Ferguson. There was that little speech, for instance, about his father’s love for his mother, halting, shy, stammered, as if he were more than half ashamed of admitting the emotions to another man, and tongue-tied in consequence. The words would have run glibly enough had a French lad spoken them.

“And with my race, I mean of course also to resume my father’s name,” Paul continued.

There had suddenly grown up an antagonism between these two people; and both were aware of it. Paul’s questions became a little implacable; Mr. Ferguson’s silence a little obstinate. “You know it, of course, Mr. Ferguson,” Paul insisted.

“Of course,” replied Mr. Ferguson.

“Will you tell it to me, please?”

“I will not.”

“Why not?”

“Your father never told you it. Your father was my client for years, my friend for many more. I respect his wishes.”

Paul Ravenel bowed and accepted the refusal.

“I have only one more question to ask of you, Mr. Ferguson.”

“I will answer it if I can.”

“Thank you! Who is John Edward Revel?”

“I really don’t know.”

Paul bowed again. He took up his hat and his stick. He was not smiling any more, and in his eyes there was a look of apprehension. He did not hold out his hand to Mr. Ferguson.

“It will have to be the enquiry agent after all, then,” he said. “Good evening.”

The lawyer allowed him to reach the door, and then spoke in an altered voice. There was a warm kindliness in it now, and to the youth’s anxious and attentive ears a very audible note of commiseration.

“Mr. Ravenel, I want you 

 Prev. P 12/191 next