“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.”