“Yes,” said Norman. “Miss—Miss Chetwynde, I mean, of course. She was Miss Howard when I—I met her.”
“I don’t understand,” said Trafford. He looked at Esmeralda, and waited. “Where did you meet?”
The color was coming back to Esmeralda’s face. She looked at Trafford appealingly; but before she could speak, Norman again came to her rescue.
“I met Miss Howard—I mean, Miss Chetwynde—at a place called Three Star Camp. I didn’t know she had changed her name.” He smiled, a little less ghastly. “I was as startled as if I had seen a ghost—not expecting to see her, don’t you see—and I expect Miss Chetwynde was just as startled.” He laughed awkwardly. “It’s a nervous time, and I hope Miss Chetwynde will forgive me for springing myself upon her like a Jack-in-the-box.”
He drew a long breath; he had done his best. Trafford accepted the explanation quite unreservedly. It was little wonder that Esmeralda should be nervous and easily upset that morning.
“You are not frightened now,” he said, with a smile, laying his hand gently and caressingly on her arm. She turned to him timidly, and yet eagerly.
“No, no,” she said. “I—I meant to tell you!”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Trafford, soothingly. “Norman is my dearest, closest chum, and I brought him round—”
“Yes,” said Norman, hurriedly. “I ought not to have come. Please forgive me, Miss Chetwynde.”
Ada Lancing had been watching with sharp curiosity and suspicion. She broke in now with: