“At our home in the old days. He came there once with—with your father. He was our guest at dinner.”
I could scarcely believe it. Then, as the thought of what this might mean flashed to my mind, I asked anxiously:
“Did he know you, do you think?”
“No, I am sure he did not. We met but once and I have,” with a little sigh, “changed since then. But I recognized him. The name of Colton was familiar to me when you first mentioned it, some time ago, but I did not remember where I had heard it. Of course, I did not connect this Mr. Colton with—that one.”
I frowned. This complicated matters still more, and further complications were superfluous.
“And, knowing this, knowing that he might recognize you at any time, you urged me to accept his offer,” I said, reproachfully. “Mother!”
“Yes.”
“Mother, how can you? Would you have me go to New York and enter a banking house where, any hour of any day, I might be recognized by some of the men I once knew? Where I might expect at any moment to be called by my real name? How can you?”
She gazed at me earnestly. “Why not tell him, Roscoe?” she asked.
I stared at her, aghast. “Tell him!” I repeated. “Tell him who I am? Tell him our story, the story that—Mother, are you crazy?”