“Certainly not,” he answered; “I have seen no one. I have only been in England for a day or two. I shall look forward,” he added, “to the pleasure of seeing your father on Sunday.” “And Mr. Bruce Deville?” I inquired. He looked at me suspiciously. He was wondering how much I knew. “Mr. Bruce Deville?” he said, slowly. “I have not seen him lately; they tell me he has altered a great deal.” “I have only known him a week, and so I cannot tell,” I answered. Again he fixed his little dark eyes upon me; he was evidently completely puzzled. “You have only known him a week, and yet you know that--that he and I are not strangers?” “I learned it by accident,” I answered. Obviously he did not believe me; he hesitated for a moment to put his disbelief into words, and in the meantime I made a bold stroke. “Have you seen Adelaide Fortress yet?” I asked. His face changed. He looked at me half in wonder, half eagerly; his whole expression had softened. “Not yet,” he said; “I am waiting to know where she is; I would go to her to-day--if only I dared--if only I dared!” His dark eyes were lit with passion; a pale shade seemed to have crept in upon the sallowness of his cheeks. “When you talk of her,” he said, speaking rapidly, and with his voice thick with some manner of agitation, “you make me forget everything! You make me forget who you are, who she is, where we are! I remember only that she exists! Oh, my God!” I laid my hand upon his coat sleeve. “Be careful,” I whispered. “People will notice you; speak lower.” His voice sank; it was still, however, hoarse with passion. “I shall know soon,” he said, “very soon, whether the years have made her any kinder; whether the dream, the wild dream of my life, is any nearer completion. Oh, you may start!” he added, looking into my white, puzzled face; “you and your father, and Deville, and the whole world may know it. I love her still! I am going to regain her or die! There! You see it is to be no secret war; go and tell your father if you like, tell them all, bid them prepare. If they stand in my way they must suffer. Soon I am going to her. I am going to stand before her and point to my grey hairs, and say, ‘Every one of them is a thought of you; every day of my life has been moulded towards the winning of you.’ And when I tell her that, and point to the past, she will be mine again.” “You are very sure of her,” I murmured. His face fell. “Alas! no,” he cried, “I cannot say that; only it is my hope and my passion which are so strong. They run away with me; I picture it to myself--this blessed thing--and I forget. Listen!” he added, with sudden emphasis, “you must promise me something. I have let my tongue go too fast. I have talked to you as my other self; you must promise me one thing.” “What is it?” I asked.