“Why not?” she asked, surprised in her turn. “Is it so uncommon a name?”
“No,” he replied slowly. “No, but it is a coincidence. The Princess did not tell me that your name was Audley.”
The girl shook her head. “I doubt if she knows,” she said. “To her I am only ‘the English girl.’”
“And your father was an artist, resident in Paris? And his name?”
“Peter Audley.”
He nodded. “Peter Audley,” he repeated. His eyes looked through her at something far away. His lips were more firmly set. His face was grave. “Peter Audley,” he repeated softly. “An artist resident in Paris!”
“But did you know him?” she cried.
He brought his thoughts and his eyes back to her. “No, I did not know him,” he said. “But I have heard of him.” And again it was plain that his thoughts took wing. “John Audley’s brother, the artist!” he muttered.
In her impatience she could have taken him by the sleeve and shaken him. “Then you do know John Audley?” she said. “My uncle?”
Again he brought himself back with an effort. “A thousand pardons!” he said. “You see the Princess did not tell me that you were an Audley. Yes, I know John Audley—of the Gatehouse. I suppose it was to him you wrote?”