The high-lifted brows of the official were eloquent, his voice
increasingly sarcastic: "So! Your memory makes absence. Repeat your
name once again."
"Page Hanaford."
"Hanaford? So! Now your other name?"
"I have no other name."
"Your other name!" was the sharp demand.
"My name is Page Hanaford, I tell you." He spoke with quick anger as he
arose from the chair.
"Your other name!" sternly reiterated his inquisitor.
A wave of confusion seemed to cover the boy. Desperate and at bay, he
rather feebly steadied himself for a last defense. "What do you mean?
Can't you hear me? I tell you for the last time my name is--"
"Ford Page Hamilton," supplied the voice of Kobu, cool, suave and sure
as he came from behind the curtain. "I arrest you as fugitive. See what
paper says? You take moneys from bank." He exposed a circular printed in
large type. It read:
"$5,000 reward for information of one Ford Page Hamilton, dead or alive.
Last seen in Singapore, summer of 1912," followed by a detailed
description and signed by a Chicago banking firm.
"It's a lie!" shouted Page as he read.
"No lie. See? Page Hanaford San, Ford Hamilton San all same." Kobu held
close to the pitiful white face a photograph which undoubtedly could
have been Page Hanaford in happier days.
The boy looked, then laid his shaking arm across his eyes. With a moan
as if his soul had yielded to despair he hoarsely whispered: "Oh, God! A
thief! It's over!"
He sank to the floor.