THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
Mornay had seized him by the arm with a grip of iron and leaned forward with eyes that stared at him like one possessed.
“The name, monsieur?” he said, huskily—“the name—the Spanish name you said—?”
“Gawd, man, don’t grip me so! You’ve spilled the tobago. ’Twas D’Añasco, I think, or Damasco, or some such unspeakable thing.”
“Think, man—think!” cried Mornay, passionately. “’Tis a matter of life and death. Was the name Luis d’Añasco, of Valencia?”
It was Cornbury’s turn to be surprised. He looked at Mornay in amazement.
“I’ faith, now you mention it, I think it was. But how—”
“And the name of the boy became Ruiz? The ship was the Castillano?”
Cornbury’s eyes were wider than ever.
“It was—it was!”
Cornbury paused. Mornay had arisen to his feet and stumbled to the dormer-window, where he fell rather than leaned against the sill. The Irishman could see nothing but the upheave of the shoulders and the twitching of the hands as
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