“I think so too—darling,” she whispered.
The stranger’s glance had now swept round to where they stood. He gave a start and a whistle of surprise; then approached them.
“I believe I must have struck the real Colvin at last,” he began, without ceremony. Here, again, standing together as they were, the height, the features, even the voices of the two men, were inimitably alike. Yet Aletta, with the eyes of love, and hearing sharpened by its spell, could detect a difference. Nobody else could, however.
“Yes, that is my name,” replied Colvin. “But—you are not Kenneth, surely?”
“I am, though. Look here,” fishing out two or three directed envelopes. “But—I’m rather glad to run into you at last. People are always hailing me as ‘Colvin,’ and abusing me for not wanting to know them again—you know—when I tell them I’m somebody else. It’s becoming a bore.”
“Well, Kenneth. I’m glad to see you, too, after all these years. You shall tell me about yourself by-and-by. But, first of all, would you mind telling me one thing. Have you been staying in Johannesburg some little while of late?”
“Rather—only just left it. Why? Oh, I suppose people have been mistaking me for you, is that it? Has its awkward sides sometimes, hasn’t it?”
“It easily may have,” replied Colvin, with a meaning in his tone, which one, at any rate, standing beside him thoroughly grasped.
“The Commandant wants you. Come!”
Kenneth Kershaw turned leisurely. Two armed burghers stood waiting.