“Norman Druce,” he said.
She repeated it.
“How do you spell it?”
He took a card from a pocket-book and handed it to her. She had never seen a card before, and she turned it over in her gauntleted hand and looked at it curiously, and read:
“Lord Norman Druce, The Manor, Oakfield.”
“What is yours?” he asked.
“Esmeralda,” she said.
And “Esmeralda,” he repeated softly, and under his breath, as if it were a chord of music.