“What became of the papers?”
“That’s why Heywood confessed, I suppose. Ye see, he loved his ward, and wanted Ferrers to destroy them. This he will do, I’m thinking, for he loves the lady himself.”
“And Mistress Clerke?”
“Hasn’t a notion of it.”
Mornay folded his arms and sat looking at the floor, a strange smile upon his lips. “Pardieu!” he said; “’twould touch her pride—’twould wring her proud heart to have the heir come back to his own.” The bitterness of his tone caused Cornbury to look at him in surprise.
“Oh, there’s never a chance of it,” he said. “You see, this Spaniard, D’Añasco, put the boy upon a ship. Why, what ails ye, man? What is it? Are ye mad?”
Mornay had seized him by the arm with a grip of iron and leaned forward with eyes that stared at him like one possessed.
“The name, monsieur?” he said, huskily—“the name—the Spanish name you said—?”
“Gawd, man, don’t grip me so! You’ve spilled the tobago. ’Twas D’Añasco, I think, or Damasco, or some such unspeakable thing.”