Sergeant Compton had turned an ashen grey; his eyes never moved from the face of the woman from the moment she entered the room. Elizabeth Ryan crossed the room and stood in front of him. His face was in shadow.
"You, sir—I heard your voice as my hand was on the door-handle; and I seemed to know your voice; and, while I stood trying to remember whose voice it was, I heard what you said. So you will not let the dead man rest! So, since he escaped you by his death, you would bring all the world to hoot over his grave! Oh, sir, if the prayers of his wife—his widow—"
She stopped. The man had risen unsteadily from his chair. His face was close to hers. She sprang back as though shot.
Sergeant Compton whispered one word: "Liz!"
Biggs and the Colonel watched the pale dark woman and the dark pale man in silent wonder. There was a likeness between man and woman.
"Liz!" repeated the Sergeant in a low, hoarse voice.
"Who—who are you? Are you—are you—"
"I am Frank!"
"Frank!" she whispered to herself, unable to realise all at once who Frank had been—it was so long since there had been a Frank in her life. "What!" she exclaimed in a whisper; "not my brother Frank?"
"Yes, your brother Frank. But—but I thought you were out there, Liz. I thought he had long ago deserted you; and that made me thirst all the more—"