"You know, old man. It goes without saying. But I am shaken out of my reckonings. I hardly know whether I am on my head or my heels. Glad to see you! I am more than glad. I need not tell you now, what I told you just now when I did not know who you were. But I did not know it was possible that I could be so deceived; besides, I am in the dark about everything. Tell me, old man, tell me everything. That's right, don't put on that fez again. I can see you better without that. I remember the shape of the head now. Yes, and keep to your old voice, my friend—it helps me to feel I am on solid ground. Now then, tell me what happened."
"Winfield, I trust you. You were the only man who was faithful to me in the old days. You will be faithful still. Nothing that you have discovered, nothing that I shall tell you shall pass your lips, until I tell you that you may speak."
"I promise that, my friend. Nothing shall pass my lips—not a hint, not a suggestion."
The other put on his fez again. "That is understood, then," he said quietly. He spoke in the old fluid tones which he had adopted since he came to Vale Linden. "I say, Winfield, look at me again. I never forget, never—mind that."
For a moment Winfield had a feeling like fear. Perhaps it was because he had not yet recovered from the shock he had received.
"We will speak of Radford Leicester in the third person, if you please. I am still Signor Ricordo, mind that. Think of me as such till I tell you otherwise. Signor Abdul Ricordo, partner in the great Tripoli trading company, eh?" and he bowed to the other ceremoniously. "I am acting my part still. Presently I will change my attire and my part; then I will be what I was. Well, you wish to know about Radford Leicester. I will tell you. Yes, he did contemplate suicide; but little as he loved life, he loved it too much to put an end to it. Besides, he feared what lay beyond what we call death. Is any man an atheist, amico mio? I think not. One night, while standing by Blackfriars Bridge, thinking of what would happen if he gave himself to the river, he saw a dead body washed on the steps. It was a bright night, and he saw that the man's face was unrecognisable; moreover, he saw that the thing had once been what is called a gentleman. Then a plan was born in his mind. After making sure that there were no marks of identification on what he saw—well, you see the rest. Radford Leicester read his own obituary notices. Ha! my friend, they were pleasant reading. He even went to his own funeral. He saw you there. Thank you, Winfield, for paying your last respects to your friend."
Winfield wiped the perspiration from his brow; it was many years since he had been so much moved.
"You were at the funeral!" he gasped.
"Radford Leicester was at the funeral. He read what a certain religious paper had to say about him. Many preachers drew profitable morals from his career. After all was over, he went away. He had made up his mind what to do. He had died, and he meant to rise again. He has risen again. He had a great battle to fight, Signor Winfield. You guess what it was. He had well-nigh conquered his enemy once for love of a woman, now he determined to conquer him completely, but from a different motive."
"Whisky," said Winfield.