But the stranger responded with something of a stark. The expression of his face conveyed astonishment, plain and undiluted.
“Pardon me,” he said, slightly raising his hat. “I think there must be—er—some mistake.”
It was the girl’s turn to exhibit amazement. Then her face flushed, hardening into a set look of sullen indignation.
“Some mistake?” she echoed. Then witheringly, “Yes, I think there must be. Pardon me, Mr Kershaw. I am very dense. I ought to have seen that you did not wish to know your friends in another country and under different circumstances.”
“Yes, that is my name. But—er—really it is very remiss of me—but— Where did we meet?”
May Wenlock stared, as well she might.
“What part are you trying to act now?” she blazed forth indignantly. Then softening: “But only tell me, Colvin. Is it perhaps that you have reasons for not wanting them to know who you are?” with a quick anxious side glance around, as though fearful of being overheard.
“Pardon me again,” was the reply. “But my name is not Colvin.”
“Not Colvin?” was all poor May could gasp in her bewilderment. “Certainly not I was christened Kenneth.”
“But—you said your name was Kershaw?”