He swept away, leaving her physically conscious of the impress of his fingers in her flesh and her brain reeling.
Baltazar marched into the great hall to Godfrey, still sitting in his arm-chair, his maimed leg, as usual, supported on the outstretched crutch.
“No, don’t get up.”
He swung the chair which he had previously occupied dose to Godfrey’s and sat down.
“By this time you must have guessed who I am,” he said in his direct fashion.
“I suppose you’re my father,” said the young man.
“I am,” replied Baltazar. “My extraordinary meeting with Miss Baring gave me away. Didn’t it?”
“I suppose it did. Perhaps I ought to have suspected something when you mentioned China. But I didn’t.”
“The assumed name was the one I was known by for eighteen years—ever since I left England. I thought I’d take it up again for the sake of a reconnaissance, like the rich old uncle in the play, to see what kind of a man you were and how you looked upon your unknown father. Hence the questions you may have thought impertinent.”