“Of course it is,” she said, in startled surprise, “why should you doubt it?”
“I don’t doubt it,” said I, “but I’m sorely puzzled. Why is it not Willis?”
“Why?” exclaimed Edie, with a little laugh, “because I am the daughter of Granny Willis’s daughter—not of her son. My father’s name was Blythe!”
The simplicity of this explanation, and my gross stupidity in quietly assuming from the beginning, as a matter of course, that the lost Edie’s name was the same as her grandmother’s, burst upon me in its full force. The delusion had been naturally perpetuated by Mrs Willis never speaking of her lost darling except by her Christian name. For a few seconds I was silent, then I exploded in almost an hysterical fit of laughter, in the midst of which I was interrupted by the sudden entrance of my doggie, who had returned from a walk with Robin, and began to gambol round his mistress as if he had not seen her for years.
“Oh, sir! I say! I’ve diskivered all about—”
Little Slidder had rushed excitedly into the room, but stopped abruptly on observing Miss Blythe, who was looking from him to me with intense surprise.
Before another word could be said, a servant entered:—
“Please, Miss Blythe, Doctor McTougall wishes to see you in his study.”
She left us at once.
“Now, Robin,” said I, with emphasis, “sit down on that chair, opposite me, and let’s hear all about it.”