to pass. You must either prove or, or . . . "

"Prove it yourself. Turn around and look at him. You've got him in
profile. Look at his nose. That's Isaac Ford's. Yours is a thin
edition of it. That's right. Look. The lines are fuller, but they
are all there."

Percival Ford looked at the Kanaka half-breed who played under the
hau tree, and it seemed, as by some illumination, that he was gazing
on a wraith of himself. Feature after feature flashed up an
unmistakable resemblance. Or, rather, it was he who was the wraith
of that other full-muscled and generously moulded man. And his
features, and that other man's features, were all reminiscent of
Isaac Ford. And nobody had told him. Every line of Isaac Ford's
face he knew. Miniatures, portraits, and photographs of his father
were passing in review through his mind, and here and there, over
and again, in the face before him, he caught resemblances and vague
hints of likeness. It was devil's work that could reproduce the
austere features of Isaac Ford in the loose and sensuous features
before him. Once, the man turned, and for one flashing instant it
seemed to Percival Ford that he saw his father, dead and gone,
peering at him out of the face of Joe Garland.

"It's nothing at all," he could faintly hear Dr. Kennedy saying,
"They were all mixed up in the old days. You know that. You've
seen it all your life. Sailors married queens and begat princesses
and all the rest of it. It was the usual thing in the Islands."

"But not with my father," Percival Ford interrupted.