“Oh! It’s a very singular scar, to come and go! What caused it?”
“The point of a sword in a duel.”
Doctor Davison was running his hand over his patient’s forehead and inspecting the scar.
“Yes,” continued the doctor, “it’s a very singular scar. In fact, it’s no scar at all. What does this mean?”
“Doctor,” said Carlos, partly rising and resting on his elbow, and speaking solemnly, “I am about to put great trust in you. I must make a confession. You are right—it is not a scar. I never received a sword wound.”
“Then what in the world is your object——”
“Wait. I will tell you. I have been practicing a great deception. Don’t you know who I am?”
“No, I can’t say that I do, unless you are Carl Zikoff, music-teacher. But you are talking pretty good English now, I must say.”
“Yes, there is no use in trying to play my part before you. Look at me well. Have you no suspicion?”
“Your face does not look entirely unfamiliar, but upon my word I cannot place you. However, Mr. Zikoff, or whoever you are, you are talking too much. I am a fool to sit here and allow you to do it. You must be quiet.”