Claire knew it well, but as she pronounced the name, the hearer’s face crinkled in confusion.
“But that is my own regiment! There is no other Carew! There’s some mistake. You have mixed up the names.”
“Oh no. I’ve heard it a hundred times. It is impossible to be mistaken. His Christian name is Frank.”
“My name is Frank!” the strange man said, and stared at Claire in increasing perplexity. “There is certainly not another Frank Carew in the M—. There is something wrong about this. I don’t understand!”
“He is a member of the — Club, and his people live in Surrey. He has an old father who is an invalid, and the name of the house is ‘The Moat’—”
Major Carew’s face turned a deep, apoplectic red, his light eyes seemed to protrude from his head, so violent was his anger and surprise.
“But—that’s me! That’s my club, my father, my home! Somebody has been taking my name, and passing himself off under false colours for some mysterious reason. I can’t imagine what good it is going to do him.”
He broke off in alarm, and cast an appealing look at Erskine as Claire suddenly collapsed on the nearest chair, her face as white as her gown.
“I say, this is a bad business I’m most awfully sorry. I’m afraid Miss Gifford is distressed—”
Erskine’s lips were set in a fury of anger. He glanced at Claire and turned hurriedly away, as though he could not trust himself to look at her blanched face. To see the glint of his eye, the set of the firm jaw, was to realise that it would fare badly with the masquerader should he come within reach. There was a moment of tense, unhappy silence, then Erskine drew forward two more chairs, and motioned to the Major to be seated.