When I entered the dining-room, he and Lorna Bolivick were talking together. I watched their faces for a few seconds unheeded by them. I do not know what he was saying to her, but she was listening to him eagerly. In some way he had destroyed the instinctive feeling of revulsion which he had created in her mind months before. She seemed like one fascinated; he held her as though by a strong personality, a strange fascination. There was no doubt in my mind, either, that although he had come to Devonshire as the guest of young Buller, he was a rival for Lorna Bolivick's hand. As much as such a man as he could love a woman, he loved Lorna Bolivick, and meant to win her. CHAPTER XXIII SPRINGFIELD'S PROGRESS After lunch, I got my chance of a few minutes' chat with Springfield. I think I managed it without arousing any suspicions; certainly he did not manifest any, neither did he appear in the slightest degree ruffled when I talked with him about Edgecumbe's strange illness. 'You have been in India, I think, Springfield?' I said. 'Who told you that?' 'I have almost forgotten. Perhaps it was St. Mabyn, or it might have been Buller. Were you there long?' 'A couple of years,' he replied. 'I was glad to get away, too. It is a beastly part of the world.' 'I asked,' I said, 'because Edgecumbe had just come from India when I first saw him, and I was wondering whether you could throw any light upon his sudden illness.' 'My dear chap, I'm not a doctor. What does McClure say?' 'He's in a bit of a fog,' I replied, 'so is Merril.' 'Doctors usually are,' he laughed. 'For my own part, I think that a great deal of fuss has been made about the whole business. After all, what did it amount to?' 'It was a very strange illness,' I replied. 'Was it? Certainly the fellow was taken bad suddenly, and he fell down in a sort of fit, but that is nothing strange.' 'It is to a man whose general health is as good as that of Edgecumbe.' 'Yes, but India plays ducks and drakes with any man's constitution,' he replied. 'You see, you know nothing about Edgecumbe, and his loss of memory may be a very convenient thing to him.' 'What do you mean? 'I mean nothing, except this: Edgecumbe, I presume, has been a man of the world; how he lost his memory--assuming, of course, that he _has_ lost it--is a mystery. But he has lived in India, and possibly, while there, went the whole hog. Excuse me, Luscombe, but I have no romantic notions about him. He seems to be on the high moral horse just now, but what his past has been neither of us know. As I said, life in India plays ducks and drakes with a man's constitution, especially if he has been a bit wild. Doubtless the remains of some old disease is in his system, and--and--we saw the results.' He lit a cigarette as he spoke, and I noticed that his hand was perfectly steady. 'Is that your explanation?' I asked. 'I have no explanation,' he replied, 'but that seems to me as likely as any other.'