'Roland Lee,' she whispered.
He started, looked up, and recognised her. 'Armorel!' he cried.
Then, strange to say, instead of hastening to meet and greet her, and to hold out hands of welcome, he stood gazing at her stupidly, his face changing colour from crimson to white. His hair was unkempt, she saw; his cheeks worn; his eyes haggard, with deep lines round them; and his dress was shabby and uncared for.
'You have not forgotten me, then?' she said.
'Forgotten you? No. How could I forget you?'
'Then are you pleased to see me? Shake hands with me, Roland Lee.'
He complied, but with restraint. 'Have you dropped from the clouds?' he asked. 'How did you find me here?'
'I met your old friend Dick Stephenson. He told me that you lived here. You are no longer friends: but he has seen you going in and coming out. That is how I found you. Are you well, Roland?'
'Yes, I am well.'
'Does all go well with you, my old friend?'