“Hold on!” cried Farnsworth, “not so fast, Zaly.  Before you leave me, listen to this.  I am not at all satisfied with what you have told me,—­or, rather, what you have refused to tell me,—­and I am going to write to your father, and ask him why he doesn’t write to you.”

Azalea stood still, facing him, and her face turned white.

“Oh, no!” she cried, in a tone of dismay, “you mustn’t do that!”

“But I will.  There’s no reason I shouldn’t write to my relative.  And I must get at the mystery of this thing.”

“Don’t do that, Cousin William, don’t, I beg of you!” The girl was greatly excited now.  Her face was drawn with terrified apprehension and her voice shook with fear.

“Why not?” Farnsworth demanded, and he grasped her arm as she tried to run away.  “I’m going to have this out now, Azalea! Why shan’t I write to Uncle Thorpe?”

“Be—­because he isn’t—­he isn’t there—­”

“Is he dead?”

“Oh, no!  He’s—­he’s—­gone away on a—­a business trip.”

“You’re making up, Azalea,—­I see it in your face.  Tell me the truth about him.  Has he married again?”

“No,—­oh, no.”

“Well, then, where is he?”

“He’s—­I don’t know—­”

“You don’t know where he is,—­and yet you claim you had a letter from him!”

“You say I wrote that letter myself—­”

“And you did!”

“Well, then, it was because you insisted on my getting a letter from him,—­and—­and that’s the only way I could think of.”

Azalea gave a half-smile, hoping Farnsworth would laugh, too.

But he did not.  He said, sternly, “I can’t understand you, Azalea.  I don’t want to misjudge you, but you must admit, yourself, that you’re making it very hard for me.  Why won’t you tell me everything?  If Uncle Thorpe disowned you,—­cast you off,—­or anything like that,—­tell me; I’ll take your part,—­and I’ll defend you.”

“Would you, Cousin William?” Azalea’s voice was wistful; “would you defend me?”

The serious tone disturbed Farnsworth more than her anger had done, and he looked at her keenly.

“Yes,” he answered, “but only if you are frank and truthful with me.  Now, once again, Azalea, what is the real name of the man who called you up yesterday?”

“Brown,” said Azalea, and Farnsworth gave a gesture of impatience.

“You’re a very poor story-teller!” he exclaimed.  “It is not Brown,—­or Green,—­or Smith.  If you had said some less common name, I might have believed you.  But your inventiveness doesn’t go far enough.  When people want to deceive, it’s necessary to frame their falsehoods convincingly.  If you had said Mersereau or Herncastle,—­I might have swallowed it.”

Azalea stared at him.

“Why would you have thought those names were right?” she asked.

“Because I should have felt sure you didn’t invent them.  But when you want to conceal a name, and you say Smith or Brown, it doesn’t go!  Also, you look as if you were fibbing.  Why do you do it, Azalea? Why?”