I am the man whom you mistook for Henry Morgan…
She looked at him with startled eyes that could not comprehend much but which were guessing many vague things.
"On my honor," he said gravely.
"You… are… not… Henry?" she gasped.
"No, I am not. Won't you please take it and read."
This time she complied, while he gazed with all his eyes upon the golden pallor of the sun on her tropic-touched blonde face which colored the blood beneath, or which was touched by the blood beneath, to the amazingly beautiful golden pallor.
Almost in a dream he discovered himself looking into her startled, questioning eyes of velvet brown.
"And who should have signed this?" she repeated.
He came to himself and bowed.
"But the name? your name?"