“What’s this?” he asked harshly. “You called my son’s name!”
The girl looked at Prescott; troubled and surprised by the confused emotions his face betrayed. There was obviously something wrong, but she could not imagine what it was.
“Yes,” she said, “I called him Cyril. Why shouldn’t I?”
Colston and his wife joined the group, while the driver looked on from the wagon and the Leslies from the stoop. Prescott and the girl stood a little distance apart and Muriel was sensible of a nervous shiver. When Prescott had first held up his hand to her, she had seen his keen pleasure and her heart had responded to it; now, however, she was filled with dismay.
Jernyngham answered her in curt, stern tones:
“There’s one very good reason—this is not my son!”
“Not Cyril!” Colston broke in. “But he made us believe he was; he’s the man we stayed with!” He made a puzzled gesture. “I can’t understand the thing.”
“Nor I,” replied Jernyngham. “Is this the man you wrote to us about?”
“Of course!” said Colston stupidly. “I thought he was Cyril; so did we all. We had no cause to doubt it.”
Jernyngham turned in fury to the Leslies.