"What's that you've got?" he asked.
The man saluted.
"I found it just now, sir, in the bushes near the gate. Looks like a dress."
Simmonds unrolled it slowly. It was the robe of the White Priest of Siva.
Godfrey looked at it and then at Simmonds, whose face was a study. Then he took me by the arm and led me away.
"I'm afraid Simmonds has his work cut out for him," he said, when we were out of earshot. "I thought so from the first. A fellow as clever as Silva would be certain to keep his line of retreat open. He's far away by this time."
He walked on thoughtfully, a little smile on his lips.
"I'm not altogether sorry," he continued. "It adds an interest to life to know that he's running around the world, and that we may encounter him again some day. He's a remarkable fellow, Lester; one of the most remarkable I ever met. He comes close to being a genius. I'd give something to hear the story of his life."
That wish was destined to be gratified, for, three years later, we heard that story, or a part of it, from Silva's lips, as he lay calmly smoking a cigarette, looking in the face of death,—and without flinching. Perhaps, some day, I shall tell that story.
"But, Godfrey," I said, as we turned in at his gate, "all this scheme of lies—the star, the murder, the finger-prints—what was it all about? I can't see through it, even yet."