Chestnut hair, pearly teeth, she was Alan all over.
Sir Anthony bowed his most respectful bow, with old-fashioned courtesy.
“And what can I do for you, young lady?” he asked in his best professional manner.
“Grandfather,” the girl broke out, blushing red to the ears, but saying it out none the less; “Grandfather, I’m your granddaughter, Dolores Barton.”
The old man bowed once more, a most deferential bow. Strange to say, when he saw her, this claim of blood pleased him.
“So I see, my child,” he answered. “And what do you want with me?”
“I only knew it last night,” Dolly went on, casting down those blue eyes in her shamefaced embarrassment. “And this morning . . . I’ve come to implore your protection.”
“That’s prompt,” the old man replied, with a curious smile, half suspicious, half satisfied. “From whom, my little one?” And his hand caressed her shoulder.
“From my mother,” Dolly answered, blushing still deeper crimson. “From the mother who put this injustice upon me. From the mother who, by her own confession, might have given me an honourable birthright, like any one else’s, and who cruelly refused to.”
The old man eyed her with a searching glance.