“That is true,” replied the pretty blue-eyed girl. “I recognise this gentleman as Mr Arthur Porter,” she cried again. “I recollect many things—that night at Farncombe when—when I learnt the truth, and then lost my reason.”
“Take no notice, monsieur,” the woman urged. “Poor mademoiselle! She tells us some very odd stories sometimes—about a young man whom she calls Monsieur Willard. She says he was murdered.”
“And so he was!” declared the girl in English. “Mr Homfray can bear me out! He can prove it!” she said determinedly.
Their visitor was silent for a moment. Then he asked:
“What is this strange story?”
“You know it as well as I do, Mr Porter,” she replied bitterly. But the stranger only smiled again as though in pity.
“My name is not Porter,” he assured her. “I am a doctor, and my name is George Crowe, a friend of your guardian, Mr Ford. He called upon me in Philadelphia a few weeks ago, and as I was travelling to Paris he asked me to come here and see you.”
“What?” shrieked the girl. “Dare you stand there and deny that you are Arthur Porter, the friend of that woman, Freda Crisp!”
“I certainly do deny it! And further, I have not the pleasure of knowing your friend.”
Betty Grayson drew a long breath as her blue eyes narrowed and her brow knit in anger.