'I don't remember, sir. It's very stupid of me. Is—is anything wrong, sir? Can I do anything?'
'Yes,' cried the stranger, with his self-control breaking down, 'you can tell me in mercy the name of your father.'
'My father's name was Bernard Wyndham,' said Godfrey wonderingly. 'He was killed in the West Indies some years ago. I say, what is it, sir—you're ill, aren't you? I'll fetch——'
But the stranger had fast hold of him.
'Don't fetch any one,' he gasped, 'I want you, only you. Godfrey, my boy, my son, look at me, don't quite forget me—you say you've seen me before! Godfrey, believe me—don't say you can't believe me, my boy, my only child!'
The colour rushed into Godfrey's face.
'I—I don't understand,' he faltered. 'Why didn't you come?'
'Because I thought you were dead, my little boy; because they told me every one died together, and you too. Because when I got free and came back they showed me the graves and told me yours was one.'
Still Godfrey held back doubtfully, though the pale eager face was so strangely familiar.
'But why didn't you come home?' he asked; 'they've been so unhappy about you, the aunts have. Why didn't you let them know?'