"Rather! But I say, Cyril, it's all rot about her being that Prentice woman."
"Ah, you think so?"
"I don't think—I know. Why, she speaks French like a native."
"How did you find that out?" asked Cyril, forgetting his indignation in his surprise at this new development.
"We had a duffer of a waiter who understood very little English, so Mrs. Thompkins spoke to him in French, and such French! It sounded like the real thing."
Cyril was dumfounded. How could a girl brought up in a small inland village, which she had left only six months before, have learnt French? And then he remembered that the doctor had told him that she had retained a dim recollection of Paris. Why had the significance of that fact not struck him before?
"But if she is not Priscilla Prentice, who on earth can she be? She can't be Anita Wilmersley!" he exclaimed.
"Of course not. She—she—" Guy paused at a loss for a suggestion.
"And yet, if she is not the sempstress, she must be Anita!"
"Why?"