"Why, sir," he cried, "it's my favourite. Where did you hear it?"
"From your own lips," replied the Governor. "And at the same time you showed me that,"—and he pointed with his finger to the spot where the old man had brushed away his hair from his forehead—"the Heidelberg scar upon your head. And you were reading Dante at the time."
Ilingsworth pulled a thumb-worn volume out of his pocket.
"I've that copy of the Inferno yet," he murmured sadly. "It keeps reminding me.... My daughter"—he peered uncertainly at the Governor. "I'm curious to know, sir, when I met you. I can't seem to place you."
"But I remember you very well indeed," rejoined the Governor. "I rode with you all day long to Buffalo, some months ago. We were on the Empire State Express together."
"Buffalo?" said Ilingsworth. "I never went to Buffalo."
"Oh, yes, you did," persisted the Governor; and drawing from his breast-pocket a diary he turned over the leaves rapidly until he came to a certain page. "Yes, you went to Buffalo on the 27th day of April, 190—that's the date."
"I can't seem to remember it," was all that Ilingsworth said; but at that moment a figure sprang towards the Governor, and a voice cried in his ear:
"The date—what was that date? The twenty-seventh day of what?"
"April."