“I don't know.”
He stared at me in silence for what seemed a long time. I thought he must be exhausted, and once more I rose to go.
“Stop! Stay where you are,” he ordered. “I haven't got the answer to you yet, and I know it. There's something back of all this, something I don't know about. I'm going to find out what it is, if it takes me a year. You can tell me now, if you want to. It will save time. What is the real reason why you won't take my offer?”
I don't know why I did it. I had kept the secret all the years and certainly, when I entered that room, I had no intention of revealing it. Yet, now, when he asked this question I turned on him and blurted out what I had sworn no one—least of all he or his—should ever know.
“I'll tell you why,” I cried, desperately. “I can't take the place you offer because you know nothing about me. You don't know who I am. If you did you . . . . Mr. Colton, you don't even know my name.”
He looked at me and shook his head, impatiently. “Either you ARE crazy, or I am,” he muttered. “Don't know your name!”
“No, you don't! You think I am Roscoe Paine. I am not. I am Roscoe Bennett, and my father was Carleton Bennett, the embezzler.”
I had said it. And the moment afterward I was sorry. I would have given anything to take back the words, but repentance came too late. I had said it.
I heard him draw a deep breath. I did not look at him. I did not care to see his face and read on it the disgust and contempt I was sure it expressed.
“Humph!” he exclaimed. “Humph! Do you mean to tell me that your father was Carleton Bennett—Bennett of Bennett and Company?”