Signor Ricordo rose as Herr TrÜbner and Herbert Briarfield came up to him. As he did so, the latter noticed that he was of more than ordinary height, and that he was evidently a man of great muscular strength. But he quickly forgot the stranger's physical proportions as he realised that peculiar quality in the man's presence, to indicate which no better word can be used than "personality." Had he been asked afterwards to describe him, he would not have dwelt upon his physical appearance at all, except only in so far as it suggested that subtle power which made him remarkable. For he was remarkable. Before he spoke a word, Briarfield felt it. It was not that his face told him anything. The chin and the mouth were covered by a thick black beard and moustache, while the forehead was hidden from him by the Turkish fez which he wore. Nevertheless, the face was one which he knew he should never forget. The stranger's eyes were large, but they were seldom opened wide, because of his peculiar habit of half closing them. In the lamplight they looked black, but they might easily be any other colour. Moreover, the protruding forehead threw them in a shadow. His skin was much tanned, as though he had lived his life beneath a tropical sun; his large nervous hands were also almost as brown as an Indian's. There was nothing Oriental in his attire, excepting his fez, and yet he suggested the East. Even the voice was different from the English voice. It was, if one may use the terms, more subtle, more fluid. Moreover, he seldom raised his voice; even when he was deeply interested, he never showed his interest by eagerness or loudness of speech. His hearers felt it, rather than heard or saw it.

No one would have spoken of him as a talkative man, and yet he spoke freely—at least, he seemed to; nevertheless, even while he was speaking, Herbert Briarfield was wondering what he was really thinking.

"The life here must be somewhat strange to you, Signor Ricordo," said Briarfield, after their coffee was brought.

"In what way?"

The question seemed natural, and yet, while he spoke in low tones, it suggested a kind of anger.

"Herr TrÜbner tells me you have spent your life in the East. I do not know much about the East, but I have called at Tunis, and have spent a few days in Cairo. It therefore struck me that to one who has lived his life there, a Devonshire village must seem strange."

"Did it never occur to you, Mr. Briarfield"—he uttered the name hesitatingly, as though he were not certain about the exact pronunciation—"that the differences which one sees in various parts of the world all lie on the surface?"

"No, I cannot say that. From what I have seen, they are deep."

"How deep?"

"Of course, it is impossible to calculate that."

"I do not think so. What is the covering of the world here? Mud. Yes, call it another name if you like; but it is still mud. Of course, it is very useful; it grows food. Away in Africa the world is covered in many places by sand; but it is only another form of mud. Grind it sufficiently fine, and it becomes slime—mud. But we must not grumble; it grows food. It is not exactly the same as you have here; but its qualities are similar. It goes to making blood, and bone, and sinew. Essentially, it is the same; superficially only, it is different."

"But I was thinking of men and women. The characteristics of the people who live near the Nile are different from those of us living here in England."

"Again, how deep is the difference?"

"I am afraid I do not quite follow you."

"And yet the thought is very simple. The sand of Sahara, of Libya is different from your Devonshire soil. Just so; but, as I said, it grows food. It contains the same vital elements. The Arab is different from the Englishman; yes, but how deep is the difference? His skin is darker, true; he conveys his thoughts by different sounds, true. Even his thoughts may on the surface be different; but dig down deep, and you find the same elemental characteristics. The Eastern eats and sleeps, so does an Englishman. The Eastern loves and hates, so does an Englishman. The Eastern ponders over life's mysteries and wonders about the great unknown, so does the Englishman. In a less degree, I will admit, but he does. Pull aside the tawdry excrescences, Mr. Briarfield, and all places are alike, all men are alike. All men, all climes, all ages tell the same story."

"And the story? What is it?" asked Briarfield.

"Ah, I will not try and put that into words."

"Why?"

"It's not worth while."

Briarfield was silent for a moment; he was not quite sure whether the man was in earnest or not.

"Have you been in England long?" he asked presently.

"Three months."

"In what part, if I may ask?"

"London."

"And you like London?"

"Yes—no—London is hell."

He spoke quietly, yet there was a strange intensity in his tones.

"Pardon me," he went on after a moment's hesitation, "I do not particularise when I say that London is hell. It only appears more like hell than other places, because there are more people there."

"You are alluding to the east of London?"

"And to the west. To the east most, perhaps, because the people are more real there. There is less artificiality, less veneer. The nearer to real life you get, the nearer to hell. And yet I don't know; the same fires burn in the west, although they are more carefully hidden from view."

"You have visited other parts of England?"

"Yes, visited."

"And how did the other parts strike you?"

"Still hell, but duller."

Herbert Briarfield looked towards Signor Ricordo with a kind of nervous laugh. Even yet he did not know how to regard him.

"I agree with your—what do you call him?—Dr. Johnson. When he was asked where he would rather live in the summer, he said, 'On the whole, London.' 'And where in the winter?' asked his questioner. 'Ah, in winter,' he said, 'there is no place else. Yes, London is interesting.'"

"What impressed you most in London?" asked Briarfield, for want of a better question.

Ricordo hesitated a second.

"The friendliness of the waiters, I think," he replied.

All three burst out laughing.

"Good," said Herr TrÜbner. "Ah, it is true, true. A man walks London streets and never meets a friend; but let him go into a restaurant, and the waiters take him into their confidence immediately."

"And did you visit our national institutions while in London?"

"Yes, I worked very hard. I saw everything. East, west, north, south, I went everywhere—everywhere. I wanted to see, to understand."

"And your impressions?"

"Ah, Mr. Briarfield, you ask a big question. Where shall I begin?"

"Well, which interested you most, the east or the west?"

"The east."

"Why?"

"Because the people are so much happier."

"You are joking."

"I speak only as an observer, of course, but I speak as I saw. I went to the places of amusement, I watched the people's faces. In the west I paid half a guinea for a seat; I sat amidst gaudy surroundings. Around me were over-fed men and under-dressed women. During the entertainments they sat coldly critical, mildly amused. It was with difficulty they suppressed their yawns; the applause was faint. In the east I paid sixpence for my seat. The people were the toilers of the city; but ah! they enjoyed. Signore, they enjoyed. They laughed, they shouted, they applauded. It did me good to hear them. I dined in your fashionable West-end hotels, where rare wines were provided, and where rich men pay thousands a year to a chef gifted in the art of titillating people's palates. The diners grumbled with their food, their wines. I also dined in Whitechapel. I spent eightpence for my dinner. Ah, you should have seen the people eat there! Even those who were poorest, and who had only their—what do you call them?—their bloaters, their tripe and onions, their black puddings—ah, but they enjoyed those things far more than your fashionable diners at the Savoy! Oh yes, I went everywhere. I went to the churches, the chapels. Again the same difference struck me. In the east, there was a sense of reality; but in the west—ah, Great Allah! forgive me!"

"Then you would rather live in the east?"

"Yes and no, Signor Briarfield. Yes, because, in spite of poverty and wretchedness, I saw more of what we call happiness in the East End; no, because, although the people seemed happy, to me it was hell. The sights, the smells, the sounds! Still, if I were given to pity, I should pity your people who live in Mayfair, rather than those at Stepney."

"You went to the House of Commons?"

"I went everywhere."

"And you saw——?"

"The puppets—yes. It was very amusing—very."

"What amused you most?"

"The pretence at being in earnest, I think. But the machinery was too plain to enjoy it really. They do things better at the theatres. There the players pretend to be puppets, but convince you that they are real. At Westminster, the players pretend they are real, but convince you that they are puppets. After all, your House of Commons did me good."

"How?"

"It gave me a sort of faith in human nature, in the simplicity of the people who send the actors there. It proves that the people of England are more fools than knaves. But it amused me vastly. No, Mr. Briarfield, your Dr. Johnson was right. If one must live in England, I should say London is the best place in the summer; while in the winter there is no place else."

"One wonders, what led you to this out-of-the-way place, then?"

"I wanted to be quiet. London is a maelstrom, from which I got out with difficulty, but I did get out. Then I said, 'Let me be quiet, let me think.' Then I met a man who had been here, and who said it was the most beautiful place in England. Moreover, he told me a romantic story about the lady who reigns here. And we Easterns love romance. So I came. I have not seen the beautiful lady yet. Do you know her?"

"Yes. I know her."

"Ah, I should like to hear about her. Will you tell me what she is like?"

"I am afraid I have not your gift of description, Signor Ricordo."

The man with the fez looked at Briarfield steadily out of his half-opened eyes, but not a muscle of his face moved. What he thought, it was impossible to tell, but that he drew his own conclusions was evident.

"I have been told that she is very gifted, very beautiful, very pious," he said.

"You speak our language well," said Briarfield; "but for a slight foreign intonation, I should take you for an Englishman."

"Allah forbid!" he cried, lifting his hands beseechingly.

"You would not like to be an Englishman?"

"If I must be of one country, yes. But I am of no country. If you have a country, you have responsibilities, duties, prejudices."

"And you are without these?"

"Would you have me assume them?"

"Without them no man lives his full life."

"With them he becomes narrow, insular, and what your poet calls 'cribbed, cabined, and confined.'"

"They are the necessary limitations of our humanity."

"Does not that depend on the purpose for which a man lives, signore? Besides, there are things which happen to some men which say to them, 'Messieurs, you are without country, without father, mother, friends, and responsibilities, and therefore without prejudices; live your lives in your own way.'"

"That is impossible, Signor Ricordo."

"And why?"

"A man is always responsible to the humanity of which he forms a part, he is responsible to the God who made him."

"Always to the latter, not always to the former."

"You believe in God, then?"

The stranger was silent a moment. An expression shot across his face which suggested pain.

"A man might be what you call an atheist in London, Signor Briarfield," he said, "with the grey, leaden sky, its long lines of streets, and its myriads of men and women crawling over each other like ants on an ant-hill; but in the East, amidst the great silences—no, a man must believe in God there. The sun by day, and the moon and stars by night, with the great silence brooding over him—great God, yes!"

Briarfield was struck dumb by the quiet intensity of his words.

"This is a man who has suffered," he thought; but he said aloud, after an awkward silence, "You are a Mohammedan, I suppose, signore?"

"I," replied the other, "I am nothing, signore, and I am everything—Christian, Mohammedan, Brahmin, what you will. I believe in them all, because all postulate a devil."

"You believe in a devil, then?"

"Have I not lived in London? Ay, and in Morocco also. But above all, I have lived!"

Had some men said this, there would be something theatrical, melodramatic in his words, but the stranger spoke so quietly that the others never thought of it.

"But here I rest," he went on, "here is quietness, peace. A good lady has been moved to build a Home of Rest for tired men, and I am tired. You have not told me about this lady, Mr. Briarfield. She is a great philanthropist, I suppose?"

"She is very kind to the poor," replied the young squire.

"And I am poor; I am in her Home of Rest. It is an experience. The place is like heaven after London: therefore I owe a debt of gratitude to my benefactress. Yes, and when I see her I will tell her so. But tell me, why did she build this place?"

"I know of nothing except what the world knows. She was anxious to befriend those whom such a place as this would help, so she built it. She also keeps the house at Vale Linden open; that is, she invites all sorts of people there as her guests. She has been a Lady Bountiful to the district."

"Distributes tracts, and all that?"

"I do not know. She has never given me one."

"She is simply one of these 'viewy' women, then?"

"She must have views, certainly, else she would not have done what she has."

Signor Ricordo laughed quietly.

"I think I see," he said presently.

"What do you see?"

"Her motives."

"What are they, then?" asked Briarfield almost angrily.

"Notoriety—and, shall we say, position?"

"Are you not judging without sufficient reason?" asked Herbert Briarfield warmly. "You have never seen Miss Castlemaine."

"I am no longer a boy," said the other, with a sigh.

"What might that mean?"

"That I have seen women—in Paris, in Berlin, in Vienna, in Damascus, Constantinople, Cairo, Bagdad, Calcutta. Yes, I have seen them—women of all tongues, all nationalities. And everywhere they are the same."

"Well, and what is the sum total of your experience?"

"I would rather not tell you."

"Why? It is always well to know the truth."

"Mr. Briarfield, if there is one thing I am afraid of it is the truth. For many years I have made it my business to keep my eyes from beholding the truth; nevertheless, it always keeps thrusting itself upon me—always. That is why I am a sad man."

"Perhaps you have only seen one side of life."

Again a look suggesting pain shot across the stranger's face, but he still spoke quietly.

"Mr. Briarfield," he said, "I have even read the book which is to the English people a text-book of religion. I fancy I am somewhat of an exception, but I have. Well, the part of that book which interests me most is the Book of Ecclesiastes. Perhaps that is because the experience of its writer is my own experience. In all essential features, Solomon, or whoever was the author, wrote my experience. I have tried everything, Mr. Briarfield."

"And your conclusion?"

"Solomon's."

"If that were my creed," said Briarfield, "I should commit suicide."

"Of course I have thought of that—without fear. But I came to the conclusion that it wasn't worth while. 'For in that sleep of death what dreams may come! Ay, there's the rub.' Besides, I've something to live for."

"According to your creed I do not see what," said Briarfield. "It would be interesting to know."

"Ah, but I have something to live for, Mr. Briarfield."

"I suppose I might be intruding on your privacy if I sought to know what it was?"

"It's not love, and it's not money," said Ricordo. "Ah, Herr TrÜbner, I apologise. I have monopolised your guest completely, and that is unforgivable. You have a great gift, my friend—all the Germans have—and it makes them a great people."

"What gift is that, signore?"

"The gift of listening."

After this the conversation drifted into general subjects, and a little later Herbert Briarfield took his leave.

"The man interests me, fascinates me, and yet I do not like him," he said to himself as he rode home-ward. "I wonder who and what he is? But for that peculiar far-away sound in his voice, he speaks English like an Englishman. Sometimes I thought I detected a suggestion of Oxford in his tones. But then, again, when he spoke German to TrÜbner, he might have been reared in Berlin or Heidelberg. Again, he seems to know the East perfectly. I want to know more about him, and yet I feel afraid of him. In any case, I'll be at that concert on Friday. I wonder what she will think of him?"

"What do you think of Mr. Briarfield, signore?" asked Herr TrÜbner when he found himself alone with the stranger.

"I think he is in love with what you call the guardian angel of this place."

"I never thought of that," said the German. "What made you think of it?"

"I kept my eyes open and I listened, that is all."

"It may be as you say," said the German reflectively. "Well, I should say from what I have heard, it would be a good match. He is a fine specimen of the English gentleman. I am told that he is well-off and very ambitious."

"And in what way does his ambition express itself?"

"Parliament."

Signor Ricordo laughed.

"You seem amused, signore. You are more merry than usual to-night. You like Mr. Briarfield. Do you not think he would be a good husband to our guardian angel?"

"I will tell you after Friday night."

"Why then?"

"Because I shall then have seen the lady of whom you have told me such wondrous things. I mean to be introduced to her, to talk with her. Ah!"

Herr TrÜbner looked towards his companion as he heard his exclamation. For once he saw that Signor Ricordo's eyes were wide open, and that a look which he never saw before rested on his face. But only for a moment. His eyes soon became half-closed again, and the air of cynical melancholy came back to him.

"We have some more visitors, I see," he said, nodding towards two men who had just entered the room.

The German turned, and saw two strangers take their seats.

"Got any cigars on you, Purvis?" he heard one say. "I left mine in another pocket, and I don't suppose we can get anything here fit to smoke."

In reply, the other pulled his case from his pocket, and the two talked in low tones together.

"Yes, Herr TrÜbner," said Signore Ricordo, "I look forward towards an interesting evening on Friday."