Cora reddened.
"He was Owen Shelby, a Welsh soldier of the Commonwealth."
"A near relation of mine?"
"You are undoubtedly his descendant. Of course I can't supply every trifling link—your people were so careless of their records; but there is no question in my mind that you are entitled to his arms, and you ought to be grateful to me for my pains."
"I am, I am," protested Shelby, with a chuckle. "But before the engraver begins work on the crumb-scraper and the prize pigs let me suggest that you add a detail which has been overlooked. I mean a bar sinister."
"Ross!"
He slipped his arm round her waist with a laugh.
"One of the state library people said that you were trailing the foreign Shelbys, and I glanced at your references. The fact I remember best is that Owen Shelby, late of Cromwell's Ironsides, died a bachelor."
She flung from him in stormy anger.
"I've twice been fool enough," she flashed, "to marry a man unable to appreciate me."