"That is all there are," she assured him, "surely three different names are sufficient for one person? I do not use the last two—only Margarita."
Roger squared his shoulders, took the banknotes from her unresisting hand and gravely folded them into her bag before he spoke again.
"Listen to me, Miss Margarita," he said slowly and with exaggerated articulation, as one speaks to a child, "what was your father's name? What did the people in the town you live in call him?"
"I told you we lived by the sea—did you forget?" she answered, a shade reprovingly. "There is no town at all. And there are no people. We live alone."
"But your servants must have called him something?" he persisted.
"Hester called my father 'sir' and the boy cannot talk, of course," she said.
"Why not?"
"Because he is dumb. His name is Caliban," she added hastily, "and he has no other, only that one."
"What is Hester's name?" Roger demanded doggedly.
"Hester Prynne," said Margarita Joséphine Dolores, "and I have had nothing to eat since the man with the shining buttons gave me meat between bread a great many hours ago. I wish I might see another such man. He might be willing to give me more. Will you look out and tell me if you see one?"