As she exhibited her passport at the gang-plank, he
had read her name across her shoulder; then he had claimed acquaintance
with her, a claim that she knew was false.
"And he wasn't impertinent. That was the worst of it," she faltered. "He
did it--well--accusingly. I had known all along that any one who knew of
Jean's marriage would recognize my name. And Jean was suspected, and
the French are strict; if they were warned, they would not let me enter
France; they would think I had come spying. I was afraid. Then, after
dinner, I went on deck and found you standing by the railing reading
that paper with its staring headlines about Jean."
"Of course!" I exclaimed. At last I fathomed that puzzling episode.
"You thought the paper might speak of the duke's marriage, that it might
mention your sister's name. In that case, if it stayed on board, it
might be seen by the captain or by an officer, and they would guess who
you were and warn the authorities when we got to shore."
"Yes. That was why I borrowed it. And I was right, I discovered; just at
the end the account said that Jean had married an American, a Miss Enid
Falconer, four years ago.
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