"Your name is not Walsh!" exclaimed Christy with a frown.
"No, sir; that is not my name, and I supposed that you spoke to some
other man," pleaded the late man-servant of the mansion at Bonnydale.
The lieutenant gazed earnestly into the face of the sailor, for he was
willing to admit to himself the possibility of a mistake. Walsh, or
whatever his name might have been, was a man of robust form, not more
than an inch or two short of six feet in height. He was clean-shaved,
with the exception of his upper lip, whereon he sported a rather long
dark brown mustache, of which a Broadway dandy might have been vain. As
a servant, he had been rather obsequious, though Christy had observed
that he used very good language for one in his menial position. As the
officer examined his form and features, and especially regarded the
expression in general, he was satisfied that he could not be mistaken.
"I did not speak to another man; I spoke to you," added Christy, as he
intensified the gaze with which he confronted the man, resorting to the
tactics of a sharp lawyer in the cross-examination of an obdurate
witness.
"I ask your pardon, sir, but you called me Welch, or some such name,"
replied the late servant, as Christy was sure he was in spite of his
denial.
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