Genuinely diverted by the cross-examination, he awaited with unruffled good humour the next question to be put by this amazingly collected and direct young person. But Sofia hesitated. She didn’t want to be rude, and Karslake seemed to be telling a tolerably straight story; still, she couldn’t altogether believe in him as yet. She couldn’t help it if his visit to the restaurant had been a shade too opportune, his account of himself too confoundedly pat.
No: she wasn’t in the least afraid. Even if she were being kidnapped, she wasn’t afraid. She was so young, so absurdly confident in her ability to take care of herself. On the other hand, intuition kept admonishing her that in real life things simply didn’t happen like this, so smoothly, so fortunately; somehow, somewhere, in this curious affair, something must be wrong.
“Please: what is my father’s name?”
“Prince Victor Vassilyevski.”
“You’re sure it isn’t Michael Lanyard?”
Now Mr. Karslake was genuinely startled and showed it. Sofia remarked that he eyed her uneasily.
“My sainted aunt! Where did you get hold of that name?”
“Isn’t it my father’s?”
“Ye-es,” the young man admitted, reluctantly; at least with something strongly resembling reluctance. “But he doesn’t use it any more.”
“Why not?”