He looked up at her, and endeavoured to smile, yet for the moment did not answer.  He seemed fascinated by the picture she made, as though some vision had suddenly appeared before him.

“I—­I remember you,” he said at last.  “You—­you are Miss Donovan; I’ll never forget you; but I never saw this man before—­I’m sure of that.”

“And I am equally convinced as to the truth of that remark,” returned Westcott, “but why did you call yourself Cavendish?”

“Because that is my name—­why shouldn’t I?”

“Why, see here, man,” and Westcott’s voice no longer concealed his indignation, “you no more resemble Fred Cavendish than I do; there is not a feature in common between you.”

“Fred Cavendish?”

“Certainly; of New York; who do you think we were talking about?”

“I’ve had no chance to think; you jump on me here, and insist I’m a liar, without even explaining what the trouble is all about.  I claim my name is Cavendish, and it is; but I’ve never once said I was Fred Cavendish of New York.  If you must know, I am Ferdinand Cavendish of Los Angeles.”

Westcott permitted the man’s head to rest back on the floor, and he arose to his feet.  He felt dazed, stunned, as though stricken a sudden blow.  His gaze wandered from the startled face of the motionless girl to the figure of the man outstretched on the floor at his feet.

“Good God!” he exclaimed.  “What can all this mean?  You came from New York City?”

“Yes; I had been there a month attending to some business.”

“And when you left for the coast, you took the midnight train on the New York Central?”

“Yes.  I had intended taking an earlier one, but was delayed.”

“You bought return tickets at the station?”

“No; I had return tickets; they had to be validated.”

“Then your name was signed to them; what is your usual signature?”

“F.  Cavendish.”

“I thought so.  Stella, this has all been a strange blunder, but it is perfectly clear how it happened.  That man Beaton evidently had never seen Frederick Cavendish.  He was simply informed that he would leave New York on that train.  He met this Cavendish on board, perhaps even saw his signature on the ticket, and cultivated his acquaintance.  The fellow never doubted but what he had the right man.”

The wounded man managed to lift himself upon one elbow.

“What’s that?” he asked anxiously.  “You think he knocked me overboard, believing I was some one else?  That all this has happened on account of my name?”

“No doubt of it.  You have been the victim of mistaken identity.  So have we, for the matter of that.”

He paused suddenly, overwhelmed by a swift thought.  “But what about Fred?” he asked breathless.

Stella’s hand touched his arm.

“He—­he must have been the dead man in the Waldron Apartments,” she faltered.  “There is no other theory possible now.”