The master regarded Uncle Ben still dubiously. "But you call yourself
Dabney. What makes you think your real name is d'Aubigny?"

"That's the way it uster be writ in letters to me in the States. Hold
on. I'll show ye." He deliberately began to feel in his pockets, finally
extracting his old purse from which he produced a crumpled envelope, and
carefully smoothing it out, compared it with his signature.

"Thar, you see. It's the same--d'Aubigny."

The master hesitated. After all, it was not impossible. He recalled
other instances of the singular transformation of names in the
Californian emigration. Yet he could not help saying, "Then you
concluded d'Aubigny was a better name than Dabney?"

"Do YOU think it's better?"

"Women might. I dare say your wife would prefer to be called Mrs.
d'Aubigny rather than Dabney."

The chance shot told. Uncle Ben suddenly flushed to his ears.

"I didn't think o' that," he said hurriedly. "I had another idee. I
reckoned that on the matter o' holdin' property and passin' in money
it would be better to hev your name put on the square, and to sorter go
down to bed rock for it, eh? If I wanted to take a hand in them lots or
Ditch shares, for instance--it would be only law to hev it made out in
the name o' d'Aubigny."