"Will you enlighten me on the interesting point of my identity, then?"
he asked rapidly.
"Oh yes. I take it that your Port Said letter was opened and read. Mrs.
Haxton is skilled at jumping to conclusions, I fancy. She said she
recognized your name at Marseilles--when the telegram arrived, you
know--but, if that were so, it is strange that she should keep the
knowledge to herself until all of us were at dinner after leaving Port
Said. I also can add two and two occasionally, and I have not the
slightest doubt that something in your letter gave her the necessary
clue. Was she mistaken?"
"In what?"
"In the belief that you are the nephew of a baronet, and his heir?"
He laughed pleasantly. After years of indifference, his birthright was
pursuing him with a certain zest.
"You could not have chosen a better example of those half-truths you
complain of," said he. "I admit that my uncle is Sir Henry Royson, but
his heir he vowed I should not be when last we met. Yet the letter you
speak of was from his solicitor, and it held out a vague suggestion of
possibilities which, to put it mildly, would make Mrs.
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