"I can dispense with it," Sarle curtly interrupted.
"Ah! That's the way when a woman steps in." Kenna's lips twisted in a bitter grin. Sarle turned to April.
"Diana . . ."
"That is the very crux of the matter," rapped out, Kenna. "She is not Diana."
"What in God's name——?" began Sarle.
"What I want to know," pursued Kenna sombrely, "is—why, if Diana Vernilands jumped overboard, does this girl go masquerading under her title?"
"Are you mad?" Sarle stared from one to the other. "Haven't you known her all your life? Did you not meet as old friends?"
Kenna shrugged. "I never set eyes on her until that day at the 'Mount Nelson.' She was a friend of yours and chose to call herself by the name of a friend of mine, and . . . I humoured her . . . and you. But the thing has gone too far. After inquiries among other passengers I have realized the truth—that it was Diana who . . ." A spasm of pain flickered across his melancholy eyes. Sarle, in grave wonder and hurt, turned to April.
"It is true," she cried bitterly, pierced to the heart by his look. "Diana is drowned. I am a masquerader." Even if she had been nothing to him he could not have remained unmoved by the desperate pleading of her eyes. But he happened to love her with the love that casts out fear, and distrust, and all misunderstanding.
"I am the real April Poole," she said, broken, but resolute that at least there should be no further mistake. He gave her one long look, then lifted her hand, and held it closer. The gesture was for all the world to see. But Kenna had not finished with her.