"Paul Lowther," said Mr. Bonnithorne. "But," he added, with a quick glance, "he may—I say he may—be passing by another name—Paul something else, for example."
"Assuredly—certainly—yes—yes," Hugh Ritson mumbled. His all but impenetrable calm was gone.
They reached the front of the house, and stood in a paved court-yard. It was the home of the Ritsons, known as the Ghyll, a long Cumbrian homestead of gray stone and green slate. A lazy curl of smoke was winding up from one chimney through the clear air. A gossamer net of the tangled boughs of a slim brier-rose hung over the face of a broad porch, and at that moment a butterfly flitted through it. The chattering of geese came from behind.
"Robert Lowther was the father of Grace Ormerod's child?" said Hugh Ritson, vacantly.
"The father of her son Paul."
"And Greta is his daughter? Is that how it goes?"
"That is so—and half-sister to Paul."
Hugh Ritson raised his eyes to Mr. Bonnithorne's face.
"And of what age would Paul Lowther be now?"
"Well, older than you, certainly. Perhaps as old as—yes, perhaps as old—fully as old as your brother."