"Winfield," said the other, in altered tones, "look at me closely. Forget the brown skin and the black beard. Picture me a little thinner and paler. Now, then, do you think Radford Leicester is dead?"
He took off his fez, and stood face to face with the man to whom he spoke.
"That's it, look closer—feature by feature. Now then, do you believe Radford Leicester is dead?"
"My God!" said Winfield.
"Ah," said the other quietly, "I thought you would recognise me if I put it to you truly."
"But—but——"
"Yes, you recognise my voice now. I am no longer the Eastern gentleman with the quiet, musical voice. The dead man has risen, eh?"
"But, I say, Leicester——"
"Not yet, Winfield. I am Signor Abdul Ricordo. I have an Italian father and a Moorish mother, and I speak English with an Eastern voice, and with a slight accent. But I speak your language well, don't I?"
"I—I can't believe it!" stammered Winfield.