He flung his cue with a rattle upon the floor of inlaid wood, and started back.
“Look, Wolf!” he cried. “He’s grinning at me! Come here, boy! Tell me the truth! Have I been tricked? He told me that he was Mr. C. and I gave him everything! Look at his face how it changes! He isn’t like C. now! He is like—who is it he is like? C.’s face is not so pale as that, and he does not limp. I seem to remember him too! Can’t you help me? Can’t you see him, boy?”
He had been moving backwards slowly. He was leaning now against the wall, his face blanched and perfectly bloodless, his eyes wild and his pupils dilated. Wolfenden laid his cue down and came over to his side.
“No, I can’t see him, father,” he said gently. “I think it must be fancy; you have been working too hard.”
“You are blind, boy, blind,” the Admiral muttered. “Where was it I saw him last? There were sands—and a burning sun—his shot went wide, but I aimed low and I hit him. He carried himself bravely. He was an aristocrat, and he never forgot it. But why does he call himself Mr. C.? What has he to do with my work?”
Wolfenden choked down a lump in his throat. He began to surmise what had happened.
“Let us go into the other room, father,” he said gently. “It is too cold for billiards.”
The Admiral held out his arm. He seemed suddenly weak and old. His eyes were dull and he was muttering to himself. Wolfenden led him gently from the room and upstairs to his own apartment. There he made an excuse for leaving him for a moment, and hurried down into the library. Mr. Blatherwick was writing there alone.
“Blatherwick,” Wolfenden exclaimed, “what has happened this morning? Who has been here?”