"Yes, I believe he really loved her. He gave up drink, and although to his acquaintances he seemed as cynical and faithless as ever, I saw a change had come over him. He chose me for his best man at the wedding. Well, on the eve of the wedding-day Miss Castlemaine got a letter, telling her the whole story. Personally, I believe Sprague wrote it. I suppose the letter seemed to prove up to the hilt that Leicester was simply playing the game to win his bet, and that although he was prepared to marry her, he was doing so because she was one of the richest heiresses in London."

"Well?"

"The wedding never came off. When he went to see her, she drove him from the house. I was there, and I saw and heard everything. I shall never forget Leicester's look as long as I live. I did my best for him, but in vain. She went abroad, and he—went to the devil."

"Tell me how, my friend."

"He flew to whisky; he gave himself over to the devil. Then the General Election came off, and he went to his constituency, only to fall down on the platform, at a public meeting, in a state of maudlin drunkenness. He was hooted out of the constituency. Where he went, God only knows. But a few weeks later his body was found washed on the steps by Blackfriars Bridge."

"Ecco! that is almost a tragedy, eh?" and Ricordo laughed almost merrily.

"It was tragedy to me; for, to tell the truth, I liked him. I had seen more of him than perhaps any other."

"And she, my friend—did she grieve?"

"I don't know. I should think not. I heard that a few weeks later her father had bought Vale Linden and that she was making merry with her friends."

"Just like a woman," said Ricordo quietly; "but there is one thing which is not quite clear to me. Why, if she did not care, has she not married some one else?"

"Well, I am not quite sure if that is the reason, but she made a vow to Leicester the night before the day fixed for the wedding that she would never marry another man, no matter what might happen."

"And you think she is keeping the vow?"

"Possibly; I don't know."

"A very interesting story, Mr. Winfield. I think I could tell you one quite as interesting. And you say the man committed suicide?"

"Yes," said Winfield with a sigh.

"Why?"

"Well, I suppose he had nothing to live for. He was disgraced, he was hooted out of his constituency, he had alienated friends, and he had neither faith nor hope."

For a few minutes they walked in silence. Then Ricordo said:

"And was he the kind of man, Mr. Winfield, who, according to your thoughts, would commit suicide?"

"There can be no doubt about it. It is true the body was unrecognisable, but there were letters found on him by which he could be identified. Neither coroner nor jury had any doubts about it."

"Was he a weak, incapable man—a man without resource?"

"Great heavens, no! He was a man who could do anything. Had he known what was good for him, I believe he might have been Prime Minister."

"A man of weak will, eh?"

"No; rather a man of iron will, when he made up his mind."

"And he had vowed to marry this Miss Castlemaine?"

"Yes."

"And was he the kind of man to give up so easily?"

"I do not think you quite realise the circumstances."

"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 God!" 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 asses' 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 hell, 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 pass your lips, until I tell you that you may speak."

"I promise that, my friend. Nothing shall pass 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.

"You were at the funeral!" he gasped.

"Radford Leicester was at the funeral. He read what a certain religious paper had to say about him. Many preachers drew profitable morals from his career. After all was over, he went away. He had made up his mind what to do. He had died, and he meant to rise again. He has risen again. He had a great battle to fight, Signor Winfield. You guess what it was. He had well-nigh conquered his enemy once for love of a woman, now he determined to conquer him completely, but from a different motive."

"Whisky," said Winfield.

"Whisky," repeated the other. "He knew that while it had dominion over him he would be the plaything of—anything. For two years he went where he could not get it."

"Where?"

"Some time he will tell you himself—that and other things. But he fought it, and he mastered it, not for love, but for something different."

"What?"

"Can't you guess? Think of the kind of man Radford Leicester was, Winfield. What do you think would be his motive?"

Winfield was silent.

"When you get down to the bedrock of this little human nature of ours, Winfield, you find that the same elemental passions exist, no matter what be our race or our country. Shakespeare knew it when he conceived the character of Shylock, and when he wrote Othello. What do you think Radford Leicester would want to live for?"

"You love her still?"

"Love her! As much as Shylock loved Antonio, my friend; as much as any other man loves one who has lifted him into heaven only to hurl him into hell."

"Then you do not love her?"

"Why should Radford Leicester love her, my friend? Tell me that."

"Perhaps because he cannot help it."

"No; he hates her because he cannot help it."

"Hate her!"

"If there is one thing the East teaches a man, it is how to hate well. He has learnt his lesson. Great God, he has learnt it well!"

"And why have you come back?"

"Why should Radford Leicester come back, Winfield? Tell me that. Think out the whole case quietly. Why should he come back? That Bible of yours is full of human nature. Those old Jews realised the elemental passions of life—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. That appeals to a man as just."

"But—but, I say——"

"Yes, tell me."

"Think of what it means. It is not right."

Ricordo laughed quietly.

"Right, wrong. They are a part of the stock-in-trade of your moralists. Let a man go through what Leicester has gone, my friend, and even if he had a little respect for it before, it would all be crushed out of him. Why, man, Radford Leicester has lived the life of a slave in Morocco, and away out in the great desert he has herded with wild beasts in the shape of men. He has seen the religion of the Christian and the Mohammedan and the Hindoo tested; he knows what it means. Do you think, after going through what he has gone, that your tawdry rag-tags of morality will have any weight with him? No, no; to hate is as natural as to love; and if love is right, so is hate."

"But, I say, old man——"

"Yes, go on."

"To put it in plain words, what you mean is this. When you realised that—that she—had cast you off—your love turned to hatred; that you played a grim joke on the world by making every one believe you were dead; that for six years you have brooded over what you believe to be your wrongs, nursing revenge all the time, and that you have come back to—to have, well, your revenge on the woman whom you once loved. Is that it?"

"It sounds melodramatic, eh? Just like a bit taken out of one of the old Adelphi melodramas. We used to laugh at them, didn't we, when we heard the pit and the gallery hissing the villain and cheering the hero. But even in those days I sympathised with the villain."

"But you don't mean that?"

"Why not?"

"It would not be right."

"Right! And even according to your smug morality, is it right for her to thrust a man where she thrust Leicester, to make him suffer the torments which he has suffered, and then to allow her to go unpunished?"

"Perhaps she has suffered."

"Suffered! Watch her even as I have watched her. Look at her smooth, fair face. There's not a line of care and suffering upon it. Hear her speak as I have heard her. Every word tells you she is without a care. Hear her laugh as I have heard her, and you would know that she thinks no more of having driven a man to his doom than a heartless gambler cares for the victim he has ruined."

"And you have risen from the dead for——"

"Just that, my friend, just that."

"What revenge?"

"One that shall be sufficient, Signor Winfield."

The two men walked on. Presently the gorge was behind them, and they stood up on the high moorland, while on every side stretched the wild, rugged countryside. The sun shone brightly, the air was sweet and clean, the birds sang joyously. Revenge seemed to be impossible amidst such surroundings.

"I say, Lei—"

"Signor Ricordo. Yes."

"How do you know I shall not go to her, and tell her—everything?"

"You couldn't do it, my friend. Do you think I didn't think it all out before I told you—what I have? How do I know you will not tell her? Because I know you. Besides, do you think it matters? Do you think you could baulk me? You do not know what is in my mind. You might tell her all you know—but that would not hinder me from carrying out my plans. No, no, I have not risen again to be frustrated a second time."

"Shall I tell you what I think?"

"I know. You think it would have been better if I had not risen, that you would have preferred for me to have died in the Thames, to coming back here to make her suffer as I have suffered. Very well, Signor Winfield, but that does not alter me."

"You mean that you will fulfil the threat you made to Sprague and Purvis?"

"I mean that I always try to pay my debts, my friend—always."

Again Winfield wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Even yet he could scarcely realise what had taken place. It seemed to him that all the foundations of his being were shaken.

"Give it up, Leicester."

"Give what up, my friend?"

"This mad scheme of yours."

"Mad! Nay, I've pondered over it for years. I've brooded over it in the silent places. I've suffered as few men have suffered, that I might gain the power that I wanted. No, my friend, I'll drag her as low as she dragged me. I'll make her feel the sting of scorn and insult as she made me feel it. She cared nothing for my disgrace, and do you think I'll stay my hand?"

"But how?"

"Not even to you dare I tell that, my friend. There are bounds, even to my trustfulness. But do not fear; it shall be sure, even if it is slow in coming."

"But, Leicester, you used to be a man. Even although you were cynical, and laughed at women's virtue, you were in your own way honourable, and chivalrous."

"Honour! Chivalry! I bade them good-bye years ago. Work with a gang of Arab ruffians for two years, as I have done, and where would your honour and chivalry be?"

"But you did that of your own accord. She did not rob you of your fortune, or your liberty, or your life."

"She robbed me of hope, of faith—of all that from your standpoint makes life worth the living. Yes, I know, I was a slave to drink; I know. Perhaps I inherited the taste for it. I was an unbeliever, I laughed at standard morality—yes, all that. But I was still a man, Winfield. She had it in her power to make me even a good man. But when—she did what she did, she robbed me of everything—everything. I ceased to be a man; I became a devil. But for her I should never have sunk to the depths I have sunk to since. When she went out of my life, the devil entered me. Man, if I were to tell you all I've gone through since—I saw you last, you'd—but what's the use?"

For an hour more they talked, Winfield eagerly expostulating, and pleading, the other answering coldly and cruelly, but never raising his voice, or showing any signs of excitement.

"Then you are determined?" said Winfield at length.

"My friend, I never make a plan one day to give it up the next."

"Then you'll excuse me, I am sure."

"For what?"

"Nothing, only I am going back to London to-night. I cannot remain your guest, knowing what I know."

Ricordo half lifted his fez, and bowed mockingly.

"I am honoured by your society, even for a few hours, Signor Winfield," he said. "It has been pleasant to talk about—old times, eh? I will tell the estimable Mrs. Briggs at the farm, who wisely rules her husband, to send back your luggage to the station. A busy editor—called suddenly back, eh? Good-day, Signor Winfield."

The other stood undecided.

"I say, Leicester, old man, will nothing move you?"

"Nothing, my friend, nothing. I have only one thing to live for now, and that I am going to have. It is a pleasant walk to the station, signore. I hope you will enjoy it."

Winfield turned away with a heavy heart. Twice he stopped as if undecided what to do, then, as if making a final resolution, he walked rapidly towards the station. As for the other, he stood and watched him until he was out of sight; but his face retained its relentless look, in his eyes was the wild stare of a madman.

"Even if I loved her as much as I hate her, I would still do what I set out to do," he said as Winfield passed out of sight.

That evening a servant at Vale Linden house announced that Signor Ricordo had called to see Miss Castlemaine.