'Yes. I think Maurice had a friend called Springfield.'
'I remember that,—Springfield. Springfield,—Springfield.'
For a moment there was a change in his voice, a change, too, in the look of his eyes. At least I thought so. I could fancy I detected anger, contempt; but perhaps it was only fancy, and it was only for a moment.
'A tall, dark fellow. He has rather a receding forehead, black hair streaked with grey, a thin, somewhat cadaverous-looking face, deep-set eyes, a scar on his cheek, just below his right temple.'
He laughed again. 'By Jove, sir,' he said, 'you might be describing a man I know. I seem to see his face as plainly as I see yours. I don't think I like him, either, but—but—no, it has gone, gone! Have you any suspicions about me? Have you found out anything?'
'No,' I said, 'I have found out nothing. But I have a hundred suspicions. You see, you interested me tremendously when I saw you first, and I wondered greatly about you. I was awfully disappointed when I could not find you.'
'Why should you want to find me?' he asked.
'Because I told some one about you, and she got tremendously interested. She got angry with me because I had lost sight of you.'
'Who was she, sir?'
'Her name is Lorna Bolivick, and, I say,—I have something to show you.' And I searched in my tunic until I had found the previous year's diary in which I had written the promise.