"Did you say he wrote his name and she wrote hers?" asked Paul eagerly.
"You seem mighty interested," said the woman. "One might think—— Ay, now I look at your face again, ye remind of the lass. Your eyes and hair are as black as hers, and ye have the same kind of face, too. It might be that she was your mother."
"Think for a moment that she is my mother," said Paul. "Let me see the writing in the book."
The woman went to the bookcase by her side and took down an encyclopaedia, and there, on the flyleaf, he saw the names, "Douglas Graham, Jean Graham, August 29th, 18—."
"And they left the next day, didn't they?" asked Paul.
"Ay, they left the next day, and they looked as though they were going to a funeral, both of them. I wondered if they had quarrelled or something, but they seemed so loving that that seemed impossible. But I've thought of them many a time since."
"Let me see," said Paul. "This is on the English side of the border, isn't it?"
"Ay," replied the woman. "It is the English side."
On leaving the next day Paul made his way to the nearest town of importance on the Scotch side, and was soon closeted with a lawyer.
"I am come to ask for information," said Paul.