“And who is Mr. Yorke?” asked Hammond.
“I’m Mr. Yorke.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Hammond began, and then, catching sight of the black band, stopped, as though he had bitten his tongue.
“Father’s dead,” Mr. Yorke explained, unconcernedly. “He died last winter, and I’m the head of the family.”
“I didn’t know; I beg your pardon. Your sister is not in mourning.”
“He wasn’t her father. Belle’s only my half-sister. Her father died when she was a kid.”
“I see. And I suppose your mother married again?”
“I suppose so, or I shouldn’t be here.”
A fresh thought occurred to Hammond. If what the boy said was true, he did not even know Belle Yorke’s real name. He was on the point of putting a question to the boy, but restrained himself. He had no right to seek that information from any one but Belle Yorke herself.
Mr. Yorke seized the opportunity to put in a word for the absent.