“The name?” he repeated impatiently, and almost shook her in his excitement. She hesitated still for a minute, then the answer came unwillingly, more as though his glance compelled the truth than that she gave it voluntarily.
“It was your father,” she half-whispered, and her eyes sought the floor and stayed there as though she dreaded reading what she might see in his face.
He stared at her for a moment, then he pushed her from him with a laugh.
“Unquestionable authority certainly,” he said moodily, and laughed again. Jill remained motionless watching him, uncertain whether he intended denying the allegation or not, and he stood opposite in a towering rage glowering back at her with his brows drawn together in the old bad-tempered scowl.
“I suppose,” he went on after a pause, “that he communicated this intelligence to you between the time of your writing to me and my first appearance at the art school after your illness?”
“Yes,” she replied, “on the Thursday.”
“That accounts for your inexplicable bad temper that Friday,” he resumed unpleasantly.
“Information from such a source must certainly have been convincing, far more convincing than my contradiction. But did it not strike you to doubt the authenticity of the signature?”
“It was a word of mouth communication,” Jill answered coldly, “Mr St. John honoured me with a visit.”
“He came here?” repeated her hearer aghast. “My father? Impossible!”