'But he remembers nothing. He doesn't even know his own name. He doesn't know where he came from; he doesn't know what he did.'
'Yes, but if it is he, what would happen, if his memory suddenly came back? Where should we be then? It won't bear thinking about!'
'But he knows nothing. Besides, who would take his word?'
'Are you sure Luscombe has no suspicions?' and Springfield asked the question sharply.
'How can he have? and yet—oh hang it all, Springfield, it hangs like a millstone round one's neck! But mind you, I am going to have no foul play.'
Springfield gave an unpleasant laugh. 'Foul play, my son?' he said, 'we are both too deep in this business to stick at trifles. You can't afford it, neither can I.'
A few seconds later, I heard them trudging back towards St. Pinto, still talking eagerly.
I lay on the thick undergrowth for some minutes without moving. The scraps of conversation which I had heard, and which I have set down here, gave me enough food for reflection for a long time. I was not yet quite clear as to the purport of it all, but I was clear that villainy was on foot, and that not only was Paul Edgecumbe's life in danger, but my own as well, and if the truth must be told, I feared Springfield's threat more than I feared the danger which I had to meet every day as a soldier at the front in war time.
The next day I received the following note:—