"I am trying to realise the man."

"Yes; but the letters found on the body."

Ricordo laughed quietly.

"Did you say the body was identified? Was it recognisable?"

"No."

"Ah!"

"I was with him when he had given up all hope of ever winning Miss Castlemaine," said Winfield. "He was in a state of utter despair."

"A weak man might have committed suicide; but a strong man, who had made a vow like that--never!"

"You do not believe that Radford Leicester committed suicide?"

"I mean that such a man as you have described would rise again, even although he died."

Winfield shook his head, and sighed.

"You do not believe it?"

"I knew Leicester. I saw the state he was in. He was not a happy man before he met Miss Castlemaine, then--well, she became everything to him. Afterwards, when he had by his own act made everything impossible, what was left for him? He would say, 'Let me die, and have done with it.'"

Again Ricordo laughed quietly.

"Were this Sprague and Purvis friends of his?" he asked presently.

"No. He did not like either of them, and he vowed that if either of them ever breathed to Miss Castlemaine anything about the wager, he would be revenged on them."

"And was he the kind of man to leave that vow unfulfilled?"

"I believe he was in such a state of despair that he was tired of life,"

said Winfield.

"Then you believe that this Radford Leicester is dead?"

"Yes, I believe he is."

They were walking along a ravine. On either side of them rose steep, precipitous cliffs. At their feet a moorland stream gurgled its way to the River Linden.

"Winfield," said the other, in altered tones, "look at me closely.

Forget the brown skin and the black beard. Picture me a little thinner and paler. Now, then, do you think Radford Leicester is dead?"

He took off his fez, and stood face to face with the man to whom he spoke.

"That's it, look closer--feature by feature. Now then, do you believe Radford Leicester is dead?"

"My G.o.d!" said Winfield.

"Ah," said the other quietly, "I thought you would recognise me if I put it to you truly."

"But--but----"

"Yes, you recognise my voice now. I am no longer the Eastern gentleman with the quiet, musical voice. The dead man has risen, eh?"

"But, I say, Leicester----"

"Not yet, Winfield. I am Signor Abdul Ricordo. I have an Italian father and a Moorish mother, and I speak English with an Eastern voice, and with a slight accent. But I speak your language well, don't I?"

"I--I can't believe it!" stammered Winfield.

"Yes, you can. Why"--and he moved his shoulders like the Leicester of old--"do you think I am a kind of thing fed on a.s.ses' milk, a poor, weak, pulpy thing that would allow myself to be the plaything of a woman and two cads like Sprague and Purvis? Did you believe that, Winfield?"

"Then you did not----"

"Die? No. I went to h.e.l.l, but I did not die."

"But, I say--I am dazed, bewildered. I hardly know where I am. I have a feeling that I shall wake up presently and find that I have dreamed this."

The other laughed quietly, and Winfield detected the laughter of Radford Leicester of six years before.

"But, I say, Leicester, tell me--that is, tell me the--the meaning of it all."

The other looked around him almost fearfully. The place was silent as death. No sound was heard save the gurgling of the moorland stream.

"Do not mention that name again, Winfield--at least not yet. I am Abdul Ricordo. Ricordo, as you know, is an Italian word which means 'remember.' I remember, my friend; I remember. I have forgotten nothing; no, by heaven, _nothing_."

"But tell me, old man----"

"I say, Winfield, you do not seem glad. You do not congratulate me; you do not offer to shake hands, nor do you tell me how thankful you are that I did not throw myself in the river."

"You know, old man. It goes without saying. But I am shaken out of my reckonings. I hardly know whether I am on my head or my heels. Glad to see you! I am more than glad. I need not tell you now, what I told you just now when I did not know who you were. But I did not know it was possible that I could be so deceived; besides, I am in the dark about everything. Tell me, old man, tell me everything. That's right, don't put on that fez again. I can see you better without that. I remember the shape of the head now. Yes, and keep to your old voice, my friend--it helps me to feel I am on solid ground. Now then, tell me what happened."

"Winfield, I trust you. You were the only man who was faithful to me in the old days. You will be faithful still. Nothing that you have discovered, nothing that I shall tell you shall pa.s.s your lips, until I tell you that you may speak."

"I promise that, my friend. Nothing shall pa.s.s my lips--not a hint, not a suggestion."

The other put on his fez again. "That is understood, then," he said quietly. He spoke in the old fluid tones which he had adopted since he came to Vale Linden. "I say, Winfield, look at me again. I never forget, never--mind that."

For a moment Winfield had a feeling like fear. Perhaps it was because he had not yet recovered from the shock he had received.

"We will speak of Radford Leicester in the third person, if you please.

I am still Signor Ricordo, mind that. Think of me as such till I tell you otherwise. Signor Abdul Ricordo, partner in the great Tripoli trading company, eh?" and he bowed to the other ceremoniously. "I am acting my part still. Presently I will change my attire and my part; then I will be what I was. Well, you wish to know about Radford Leicester. I will tell you. Yes, he did contemplate suicide; but little as he loved life, he loved it too much to put an end to it. Besides, he feared what lay beyond what we call death. Is any man an atheist, _amico mio_? I think not. One night, while standing by Blackfriars Bridge, thinking of what would happen if he gave himself to the river, he saw a dead body washed on the steps. It was a bright night, and he saw that the man's face was unrecognisable; moreover, he saw that the thing had once been what is called a gentleman. Then a plan was born in his mind.

After making sure that there were no marks of identification on what he saw--well, you see the rest. Radford Leicester read his own obituary notices. Ha! my friend, they were pleasant reading. He even went to his own funeral. He saw you there. Thank you, Winfield, for paying your last respects to your friend."

Winfield wiped the perspiration from his brow; it was many years since he had been so much moved.