Awdrey swayed from side to side. His excitement was so intense that he would have fallen if Dr. Rumsey had not caught him. The night was a chilly one, but the terrified and stricken man was bathed in perspiration.
"Come, Awdrey, you have told me everything, and it is fully time to return home," said the doctor.
"I vow I won't go back until I see that man's face, Dr. Rumsey. What name did they give him at the trial? Frank—Frank Everett—was he the man convicted of the murder?"
"Yes, of course, you must remember that—he is serving his time now in Portland."
Awdrey faced round suddenly, and looked into the doctor's eyes.
"It is all a mistake then," he said, in a queer sort of whisper. "I swear that before God. I saw Everett once—he was a thickly made man—that fellow is slighter, taller, younger. He carries my stick and wears my clothes. Why in the name of Heaven can't I see his face? What are you saying, doctor?"
"Only that I must take you home, my good fellow. You are my patient, and I cannot permit this excitement any longer."
"But the murder is still going on. Can't you see the whole thing for yourself? That fellow with his back to us is the murderer. He uses his stick as a bayonet. What did I once hear about that? Oh that I could remember! There is a cloud before my mind—oh, God in Heaven, that I could rend it! Do not speak to me for a moment, doctor, I am struggling with a memory."
Awdrey flung himself on the ground—he pressed his hands before his eyes—he looked like a demented man. Suddenly he sprang to his feet.
"I have it," he said with a laugh, which sounded hollow. "If I look in the pond I shall see the man's face. His face must be reflected in it. Stay where you are, doctor, I'll be back with you in a minute. I am getting at it—light is coming—it is all returning to me. He uses his stick as a bayonet, prodding him in the mouth. Old, old—what am I saying?—who told me that long ago? Yes I shall see his face in the pond."