'No. I have been offered one, but I wouldn't have it. Something, I don't know what, told me not to. I wouldn't even have a corporal's stripe.'

'And you have no more idea of who you really are than you had when I saw you first?'

'Let me see if I can help your memory,' I said. 'Devonshire, think of that word, now, and what it represents,--does it bring back anything to you?'

'Nothing, except that yearning. I have a feeling that I know something about it,--a great longing to--to--I hardly know what.'

I tried him a little farther. 'Granitelands,--does that mean anything to you?'

'Can you ever recall any remembrance of, or has the name of Maurice St. Mabyn any interest for you?'

I asked this because, even in spite of what Captain Springfield had told me, vague fancies had come to me that perhaps there might be some mistake, and--and----but I dared not bring my thoughts to a conclusion.

'Maurice St. Mabyn,' he repeated, 'Maurice St. Mabyn. It might be a name I heard when I was a kiddy, but--no.'

'Norah Blackwater.' I uttered the name suddenly, impressively, and I thought I saw his lips tremble, and certainly his eyes had a far-away look. He was like a man trying to see in a great darkness, trying to outline objects which were invisible to the natural eye.

'That seems like a dream name. Who is she? Why do you ask about her?'

'I am trying to help you,' I said. 'She is a lady I met at the house of Sir Roger Granville. She must be about twenty-five, perhaps not quite so old, a tall, stylish-looking girl. I expect by this time she is engaged to a fellow called George St. Mabyn. He is a brother to Maurice, who was killed in Egypt.'

'Yes. I think Maurice had a friend called Springfield.'

'I remember that,--Springfield. Springfield,--Springfield.'

For a moment there was a change in his voice, a change, too, in the look of his eyes. At least I thought so. I could fancy I detected anger, contempt; but perhaps it was only fancy, and it was only for a moment.

'A tall, dark fellow. He has rather a receding forehead, black hair streaked with grey, a thin, somewhat cadaverous-looking face, deep-set eyes, a scar on his cheek, just below his right temple.'

He laughed again. 'By Jove, sir,' he said, 'you might be describing a man I know. I seem to see his face as plainly as I see yours. I don't think I like him, either, but--but--no, it has gone, gone! Have you any suspicions about me? Have _you_ found out anything?'