"Yes, you can. Why"—and he moved his shoulders like the Leicester of old—"do you think I am a kind of thing fed on asses' milk, a poor, weak, pulpy thing that would allow myself to be the plaything of a woman and two cads like Sprague and Purvis? Did you believe that, Winfield?"
"Then you did not——"
"Die? No. I went to hell, but I did not die."
"But, I say—I am dazed, bewildered. I hardly know where I am. I have a feeling that I shall wake up presently and find that I have dreamed this."
The other laughed quietly, and Winfield detected the laughter of Radford Leicester of six years before.
"But, I say, Leicester, tell me—that is, tell me the—the meaning of it all."
The other looked around him almost fearfully. The place was silent as death. No sound was heard save the gurgling of the moorland stream.
"Do not mention that name again, Winfield—at least not yet. I am Abdul Ricordo. Ricordo, as you know, is an Italian word which means 'remember.' I remember, my friend; I remember. I have forgotten nothing; no, by heaven, nothing."
"But tell me, old man——"
"I say, Winfield, you do not seem glad. You do not congratulate me; you do not offer to shake hands, nor do you tell me how thankful you are that I did not throw myself in the river."