“Over in the south by Marrakesch.”
“And you could continue to escape recognition.”
“I think so. Even if I were recognised, very likely those who recognised me would say nothing. I remember a case once . . .”
“Here?” cried Marguerite. “There was a case, then—an example to follow—and even so you would not tell me.”
“I didn’t mean I know of a case here. I was thinking of another country. India. If that man could, I could, for I am even better equipped than he was.”
Paul Ravenel could say that with confidence. He knew more of the Moors, had more constantly lived their life and spoken their dialects than Colonel Vanderfelt had known of the Pathans upon the frontier of India. The example of Colonel Vanderfelt had been long in Paul Ravenel’s thoughts. How often had he watched with an envy not to be described, both when he waked and when he slept, that limping figure, with the medals shining upon his breast, walk down the dark city street from the brilliant lights of the Guildhall!
How often had this room in the remote hill town of Mulai Idris been suddenly filled with the fragrance of a Sussex garden, whilst he himself looked out not upon the hillside of Zahoun but upon a dim and dewy lawn where roses clustered! He had done the bad thing which his father did, and, like his father, lost his place in the world. Could he now win back that place by the expiation of his father’s friend? Was it not of excellent omen that the solution which he had remembered, Marguerite had herself devised? But she must weigh everything.
“It may be long before opportunity comes,” he warned her. “Such opportunity as will restore to me my name. It may never come at all. Or death may come with it.”
Marguerite looked round the room and out of the window to the barren hill.
“Is not this death, Paul?” she answered, simply, and he was answered.