The words gurgled in his throat. He gripped the arms of his chair and attempted to sit up straighter and to get control of himself. Compared with his nervous collapse the calm of Hallam's demeanour was remarkable. "Look here," he muttered, fumbling for words, his bewildered gaze fixed upon the other's face. "Don't you try to rush things. I've got to get used to this idea. I'm all abroad. When a man has been missing for years one doesn't expect to see him walk in as if he had been away on a holiday. What in hell do you mean by turning up here after all this time? Where've you been? Man, you were found--dead--and buried. There's a stone erected to your memory out on the veld beyond Bulawayo. You've no right to disappear and turn up again after six years. It's indecent." "It's awkward, I admit," Hallam returned grimly, and regarded the other sternly with the angry light of accusation in his keen eyes. "I want an explanation of your reasons for swearing falsely to my identity. You buried another man under my name--why?" "Paul, I swear I thought it was you--believe me, or not, as you will." Suddenly Bainbridge turned with quick suspicion in his look, and smote the arm of his chair fiercely. "You put that trick on us--to deceive us. Why was that man dressed in your clothes, and carrying your papers? Poor devil! there wasn't anything else left of him that one could swear to." "I see. No," Hallam shook his head; "you are on the wrong track. I owe my life to the man you buried--I don't know his name. I don't know how he came by his death. I know nothing about him; save that he came to my aid when I was past aiding myself. Then he left me to the care of natives, and robbed me; left me with his old clothes, and nothing of my own but my boots, which, presumably, didn't fit him. Oddly, he didn't discover that the boots had double soles and were lined with notes. He stole all the money I had on me, which was considerable, and which possibly cost him his life. He did me good service; though through his death he injured me more than he could have done had he murdered me. It's a grim mistake; and it's going to lead to grim consequences." Bainbridge stared hard at the speaker. "The muddle is of your own making," he said sullenly. "Why did you never send a line? Esme fretted her heart out for news of you." "She soon recovered from her distress," Hallam replied. "You've heard?"--Bainbridge broke off in his question abruptly. "That she married Sinclair--yes. That is what I have come to talk over with you." "Well, look here!" Jim Bainbridge leaned his head on his hand and thought hard. "Why didn't you send a line?" he repeated in tones of exasperation. "Man, don't you see how a word from you would have saved the situation? It's your own fault, Paul. You've brought this on yourself."