“That's what I done, sir.”
“What did she say?”
“Say? She didn't say nawthing.”
“Nothing at all? Not a word?”
“Well, sir, here's how it was. I says, 'Redwood?' and she says, 'Yes;' and I says, 'Sign;' and she signed; and that's all there was to it.”
“She signed? Have—have you got her signature?”
“Why, certainly. Here you are,”
The boy exhibited a bit of pink paper, upon which, in the hand that he knew so well, Elias, with a breath-taking thrill, read her name: “Christine Redwood.” He took the paper between his fingers. It was like a talisman. Her touch, scarcely a moment since, had warmed it, her face shadowed it. He had to struggle with himself, to keep from carrying it to his lips, and kissing it, then and there.
“What—how much—will you take for this paper?” he demanded of the boy.
“Nawthing. Got to return it to the office.”