He drew a little closer. It were best to lose no time, now; if his imposture had been detected, the best way to meet it, was by confession, before the Governor could act. It would go far to sustain his story, if he should tell it, voluntarily, before he knew (apparently) that any one suspected him.
"Miss Stirling," he said, looking off into the distance, "we do queer things in this world, and we travel queer paths, sometimes—but we usually, once in our lives, at least, come back to the simple truth and the plain path. I have come to them, now."
He fell to drawing diagrams in the grass with his walking-stick, tracing them over and over, while he let her wonder what was in his mind. Presently he spoke again, seemingly with much feeling, his eyes now hard upon her face.
"I am going to make a confession," he said—"whether it is a good one or a bad must rest with you; but for you it would not be made.—I am not Sir Edward Parkington."
"So I am aware," she answered.
"What! you knew?" he cried, with well feigned amazement.
"Since this evening."
"But how?" he protested. "How did you know?"
"I had a letter from Lady Catherwood, in London. She mentioned Sir Edward Parkington's coming to Annapolis—and described him. The description does not tally, in the least, with you."