Almost in a dream he discovered himself looking into her startled, questioning eyes of velvet brown.
“And who should have signed this?” she repeated.
He came to himself and bowed.
“But the name?—your name?”
“Morgan, Francis Morgan. As I explained there, Henry and I are some sort of distant relatives—forty-fifth cousins, or something like that.”
To his bewilderment, a great doubt suddenly dawned in her eyes, and the old familiar anger flashed.
“Henry,” she accused him. “This is a ruse, a devil’s trick you’re trying to play on me. Of course you are Henry.”
Francis pointed to his mustache.
“You’ve grown that since,” she challenged.
He pulled up his sleeve and showed her his left arm from wrist to elbow. But she only looked her incomprehension of the meaning of his action.