"
She was certainly silent for a moment. He fancied too that there was a
change in her face.
"From Devonshire!" she repeated, with a carelessness which, if it was
not natural, was exceedingly well assumed. "I believe I knew some people
once who came from there. What is your friend's name, Sir George?"
He turned slowly towards her.
"Andrew Pelham!" he said quietly. "He comes from a place called
Raynesworth."
"He is staying here now--with you?"
"Yes," he answered gravely.
It was not his fancy this time. Of that he felt sure. Her face for the
moment had been the color of chalk--a little exclamation had been
strangled upon her lips. She shot a quick glance at him. He met it
steadily.
"You know the name?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"The name--yes," she answered, "but not the person. A very old friend
of mine was called Andrew Pelham, but he was an American, and he has
never been in England. It startled me, though, to hear the exact name
from you."
She was herself again. Her explanation was carelessly given. It sounded
even convincing, but Duncombe himself was not convinced. He knew that
she wanted him to be.
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