Faradeane smiled.
“For the best of all reasons. Because my pursuers, when I disappeared, at once jumped to the conclusion that I had sought refuge on foreign shores, and are now, I humbly trust, spending their time and energy in scouring the Continent after me.”
Bertie almost groaned.
“Your pursuers!”
Such a word in connection with the noble form and face seemed, indeed, incongruous and absurd.
“Yes, my pursuers,” said the other, gravely and quietly, “and now you wonder what it is that I have done. I wish I could tell you, Cherub, but I can’t. There are some things a man cannot bring himself to confess, even to his dearest friend; this is one of them. And now what will you do?” he asked, fixing his eyes intently upon Bertie’s eloquent face. “I’ve told you enough to show you that my society is not desirable, and that you will do wisely to get up and go. You see, after all, it is a mistake on your part. The man you are listening to is not the old friend you mistook him for, but only a certain Mr. Faradeane, a perfect stranger who somewhat resembles that old friend. Take my advice—I don’t offer it often—take my advice, Lord Granville; make a polite bow, excusing yourself for intruding, and leave me.”
Bertie’s face grew crimson, and he sprang to his feet and laid his small hand upon the broad, straight shoulder.
“Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?” he said, in a voice that trembled with indignation. “What do you take me for, old fellow?”
Faradeane put up his hand, and clasping the tiny one, pressed it in silence for a moment.
“I might have known what you would say, Cherub,” he said, his voice softening for the first time. “I might have known——Well, so be it! But remember, remember”—impressively—“that it is, indeed, and in truth a mistake, and that I am not the man you mistook me for. I am Harold Faradeane, and you make my acquaintance for the first time to-day.”