"Evelyn. But that's too long for a doll."
"Evelyn—what? You—you haven't told me your name yet."
"Rosemary Evelyn Clifford."
"Great Heavens!"
"How strange your voice sounds," said Rosemary. "Are you ill?"
"No—no! I—feel a little odd, that's all."
"Oh, it isn't the vanishing coming on already? We're a long way from our hotel yet."
Hugh drove mechanically, though sky and sea and mountains seemed to be seething together, as if in the convulsions of an earthquake.
Her child! And her husband—what of him? The little one said he was lost; that he had not been kind. Hugh gritted his teeth together, and heard only the singing of his blood in his ears. Was the man dead, or had he but disappeared? In any case, she was here, alone in Monte Carlo, with her child; poor, unhappy, working by day, crying by night. He must see her, at once—at once.
Yet—what if it were not she, after all? If the name were a coincidence? There might be other Evelyn Cliffords in the world. It must be that this was another. His Evelyn had married a rich and titled Englishman. She was Lady Clifford. The things that had happened to Rosemary's Angel could not have happened to her. Still, he must know, and know quickly.