"Easily enough, to be sure," said the man on the bed. "Ask Stewart. He knows only too well."
The Irishman scowled. And after a moment he said:
"I don't know any Stewart."
But at that Ste. Marie gave a laugh, and a tinge of red came over the Irishman's cheeks.
"And so, to save Captain Stewart the trouble," continued the wounded man, "I'll tell you my name with pleasure. I don't know why I shouldn't. It's Ste. Marie."
"What?" cried O'Hara, hoarsely. "What? Say that again!"
He came forward a swift step or two into the room, and he stared at the man on the bed as if he were staring at a ghost.
"Ste. Marie?" he cried, in a whisper. "It's impossible! What are you," he demanded, "to Gilles, Comte de Ste. Marie de Mont-Perdu? What are you to him?"
"He was my father," said the younger man; "but he is dead. He has been dead for ten years."
He raised his head, with a little grimace of pain, to look curiously after the Irishman, who had all at once turned away across the room and stood still beside a window with bent head.