He disregarded my question, and appeared to be endeavouring to recall his thoughts.
“Ah, yes, it was the seal that was on Nell,—yes, the seal, and I took it off. It’s in the box, along with the portrait.”
“And you wanted me—for what?” I said, inquiringly, for he seemed to be losing himself again.
“You? Who are you?”
The question fell with a terrible weight upon my ears—it was clear that the man’s senses had fled.
“Frank Burgoyne is my name,” was my reply. “You were going to tell me who it was your wife went to see, and why you wanted me.”
“Wanted you? Ah, yes! I’ve seen you before—in Drury Lane. Nell showed you to me, for you gave evidence at the inquest. Yes, I’ve seen you!”
In a moment the remembrance of that mysterious encounter in Drury Lane came vividly back to me.
Was this the suspicious character who had come up as if he meant to speak to me, and who afterwards vanished?
There was something very awful in the ravings of that man during the next quarter of a hour. At times he was apparently hiding like a beaten hound, cringing and whining, while from the mention of the Junior Garrick Club it struck me that he was, in imagination, pleading to be allowed to stay outside the club house.