He struck a match and lit his pipe.
"I have seen no one," he answered quietly. "The face was probably a fancy of yours. I should recommend you to forget it."
I looked down at his marsh-stained shoes. One foot was wet to the ankle, and a thin strip of green seaweed had wound itself around his trousers. To any other man I should have had more to say. Yet even in those first few hours of our acquaintance I had become, like all the others, to some extent the servant of his will, spoken or unspoken. So I held my peace and looked away into the fire. I felt he had something to say to me, and I waited.
He moved his head slowly towards the bookcase.
"Those books," he asked, "are yours?"
"Yes," I answered.
"Your name then is Guy Ducaine?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever know your father?"
It was a singular question. I looked at him quickly. His face was sphinxlike.