'You don't know Maurice St. Mabyn, do you?'

I shook my head.

'Spent all his life soldiering in the East, and knows more about Eastern affairs than any living man. Yes, I mean it. He knows any amount of Eastern dialects; speaks Arabic and Turkish like a native, and has a regular passion for mixing himself up in Eastern matters. He can pass himself off as a Fakir, a Dervish—anything you like. He knows the byways of Eastern cities and Eastern life better than any man I know of, and obtained a great reputation in certain official quarters for discovering plots inimical to British interests. That's Maurice St. Mabyn. A jolly chap, you understand, as straight as a die, and as fearless as a lion. A diplomatist too. He can be as secret as an oyster, and as stealthy as a sleuth-hound. He has been used more than once on delicate jobs.'

'But—but——' I interjected.

'In the July of 1914,' he went on without noticing my interruption, 'I was sitting alone in my show in Bizna where I was then stationed, when who should come in but Maurice. He looked as I thought a bit anxious and out of sorts. I hadn't seen him for more than a year, and he startled me.

'I asked him what he was doing in India, and he told me a curious yarn.
He said that he'd been mixed up in a skirmish in Egypt, and that
Springfield had tried to murder him.'

'You are sure of this?' I gasped.

'Sure! Of course I'm sure. He said that Springfield, who was also in the show, had for some time acted in a very suspicious way, and that during the row with the natives, the greater part of which had taken place during the night, Springfield had pounced upon him, stabbed him—and—and left him for dead. By one of those flukes which sometimes takes place, St. Mabyn didn't die. He turned up, weeks afterwards, and saw General Gregory.

'Now follow me closely here. It so happened that only that day Gregory had received a message telling him that German trouble was probable, and that reports were wanted from certain quarters where it was feared the Huns were trying to stir up trouble.'

'In India?' I asked.

'In the East; it was not for me to know where; and Gregory wanted a man who knew the East, in whom he could trust lock, stock and barrel. Directly he saw St. Mabyn, he fastened on him as his man, and he clung to him all the more tightly when St. Mabyn told him his story.

'"I'll keep Springfield, and his little game in mind, St. Mabyn," he said; "but for the time you must remain dead. This is an important job, and it must be done quietly."

'That was why he came to India, and why the story which I imagine Springfield got into the papers was never contradicted. On his way to his job, however, he got thinking things over. Naturally he wanted not only his brother to know, but his fiancÉe, Miss Blackwater. So knowing where I was, he looked me up and told me what I have told you. It seems he had heard I was due to return home, and he asked me to look up his brother and Miss Blackwater, and to tell them that his death was by no means certain, and that he might turn up all right.

'Not long after, fresh drafts of men came to Bizna, and on the day they arrived I asked a young chap called Dawkins who they were. He mentioned several names, and among them was Springfield's.

'"What Springfield?" I asked, for I remembered I had a distant relative of that name.

'"Oh, he was in Upper Egypt. His family came from Devonshire, and he was a great friend of Maurice St. Mabyn who was killed. Poor chap, when he told us the story he nearly broke down. I never knew he had so much feeling in him."

'I don't know why it was, but I lost my head. I suppose the fellow's hypocrisy disgusted me so that I blurted out what St. Mabyn told me to keep quiet.

'"The blackguard," I said "he deserves to be shot, and will be shot, or hanged!"

'"Who's a blackguard?" asked Dawkins.

'"Springfield," I replied. "Grieving about the death of Maurice St. Mabyn! Why, the coward, he—he—; but Maurice St. Mabyn will turn up again, and—and——"

'"But St. Mabyn's dead!" cried Dawkins. "I saw it reported myself."

'"He isn't dead?" I blurted out.

'"But how can that be?" asked Dawkins.

'"Because I believe in my own eyes and ears," I replied.

'After that, I was under the impression that I was watched and followed. More than once when I thought I was alone I heard stealthy footsteps behind me, but although I tried to verify my suspicions I could not. However, I did not trouble, for in due time I started for home. I arranged to break my journey to Bombay at a place where I had been stationed for six months. It was only a one horse sort of a show, but I had some pals there, and they had insisted on my spending a day or two with them. It took me three days to get there, and on my arrival I found a long telegram purporting to be from my colonel, requesting me to go to an outpost station where important information would be given me. It also urged me to be silent about it.

'Of course, although I was on leave, I was anxious to fall in with my colonel's wishes, and so, instead of going straight on to Bombay, when I left my pals, I went towards this outpost station.'

'Were you alone?' I asked.

'Except for my native servant whom I had arranged to take back to England with me. We had not gone far when my servant stopped. "There is something wrong, master," he said. "Let us go back."

'He had scarcely spoken, when there was the crack of a pistol, and several men pounced upon me. I was thrown from my horse, and very roughly handled.'

'Did you see the men?' I asked.

My friend was silent for a few seconds, then he replied, 'I can swear that one of them was Springfield. Some one had given me a blow on the head, and I was a bit dizzy and bewildered; but I am certain that Springfield was there.'

'Then you believe——'

'The thing's pretty evident, isn't it?' he said. 'He had a double purpose to accomplish. If I were dead I could no longer be a danger to him as far as St. Mabyn was concerned, and——'

'He was the next in succession to your father's title, and would naturally be his heir,' I interrupted. 'But what happened to you after that?'

He shuddered like a man afraid. 'I don't like to think of it,' he said. 'As I told you there was one black spot in my past which I couldn't remember clearly. That's it. But I have dim memories of torture and imprisonment. I know I suffered untold agonies. I have only fitful glimpses of that time, but in those glimpses I see myself fighting, struggling, suffering until a great blackness fell upon me. Then I remember nothing till I came to myself on the road to Bombay, with my memory gone. The rest you know.'