sneer at her glibness with the titles; the next, she divined a yet more sinister meaning, and it held her speechless. Her suspicions of last night were his of this! It was incredible, monstrous, absurd; and yet the case. His silence was significant—and the more shame for him! It had been bad enough in her when there were the rough clothes to excite a prejudice, and no luggage to allay it. But in George Young—now—after all that had happened under his eyes—it was mere malicious idiocy. Irralie laughed in his face.
"So you think that!"
"What?"
"That he's not what he says he is!"
Young looked at her firmly with his obstinate, set face.
"Yes—I think that. Stop a moment, Irralie! You have forced me to speak, and now there's one question—no, two—that I've got for you. Have you ever seen the signature of Greville Fullarton?"
"Never."
