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CHAPTER XXI
A GAME OF GOLF – A GAME OF LIFE

"I wish I hadn't come here, Purvis."

"Why not?"

"Well, you know how I feel."

Purvis shrugged his shoulders.

"Your mistake can easily be remedied, Sprague. You have only to take the train from Vale Linden station, and then you can go to Ilfracombe or Westward Ho! or, for that matter, return to London."

"Yes, I know; and I know, too, that it was through me you came down here. All the same, I feel jolly mean. Do you know, although that letter meant the smashing up of the engagement, and thus saving her life from ruin, she has never acknowledged it, and, for that matter, has never spoken to me since. Not that I expected gratitude, at least for a time, but after six years – "

"You know we both left England for a long sojourn abroad, directly we knew that the bubble had burst."

"Yes, I know; still, I did think that out of pure gratitude she might have – "

"She's not that sort, Sprague. Follow my example, and think no more about her. Hang it, we are not children; and she's not the only woman in the world. She gave us both our congé; let us take it graciously, and enjoy our golf."

"I wish I could forget her, old man; but I can't. I don't feel comfortable. For all these six years I've never forgotten her, and when Leicester made an end of himself, I said to myself, 'In two or three years' time she'll feel so grateful to me that – ' Well, you know what I thought. But she's never recognised me in any way. Other people we know have been invited to Vale Linden, but I've never been one of the lucky ones. That was why I urged you to come with me to this place of hers. It meant having a chance of seeing her, and I hoped that she would feel kindly towards me."

"Well, she may. Who knows?"

"I wonder how she feels about Leicester now?"

"Most likely she's forgotten him."

"Hardly."

"Why not?"

"Well, you see, she's married no one else."

"I make nothing of that. Besides, if she really loved him, do you think she'd have thrown him over?"

"Yes," said Sprague, after a moment's hesitation.

"How do you make it out?"

"No woman with such pride as Olive has could have married him after the letter I wrote. I presented a strong case, man. You see, Leicester gave himself away so completely, that I had only to quote his exact words to prove – well, exactly what I wanted to prove. At any rate, she did throw him over."

"Do you think Leicester really cared for her?"

"Heaven only knows. It was impossible for any one to tell exactly what he felt. At any rate, he went the whole hog afterwards, and then killed himself. Do you know, although the fellow's end was so terribly sad, I heaved a sigh of relief when I saw the report in the newspapers? If he'd lived – well, I don't like to think what would have happened to either of us. You know that terrible look in his eyes when he threatened us."

"Yes; but, after all, what could he do?"

"There's no knowing what a fellow like Leicester would have done. But there, he's dead, and that's an end of it."

The two men climbed the hill towards the moors in silence. Some distance behind, two boys followed, carrying their golf clubs.

"I suppose all this land around here belongs to John Castlemaine," remarked Purvis presently.

"I suppose so. I say, Purvis, did you notice what a mixed lot we are at The Homestead?"

"Rather; but I like it. They do things very well there, too. Of course, it was never intended for the likes of us; yet I am sure there are people there who have no need to economise. Some one told me that a neighbouring squire was dining there last night; and did you notice that Turkish chap?"

"Yes; remarkable-looking fellow, isn't he? He makes one think of vampires. Still, I hear he's a good sort. I should like to have a chat with him."

"Well, that should be easy enough. Somebody told me he had gone on the links. We may see him there."

They made their way to the club-house, and prepared to commence their game. A couple of men were on the first tee, waiting to start.

"We shan't have to wait long," said Purvis. "I say, there is that Turkish fellow. I think he's looking for a match."

"Surely he won't be able to play."

"Anyhow, he has his clubs, and he seems to be wanting a game. Let's ask him to join us. It'll only be civil."

"I don't like threesomes."

"Neither do I on a crowded links, but it doesn't matter here. We have plenty of time; it's not ten o'clock yet."

"But I expect he's only a beginner. If he is, he'll spoil our game."

"Well, let's see."

Signor Ricordo stood near the tee as they came up. He bowed to them and stood aside.

"Are you not playing, sir?" asked Purvis.

"Yes," replied Ricordo. "I will go around by myself after you are gone. I arranged to meet a gentleman here just after nine; but I have received word to say he can't come."

"Have you played much?" asked Sprague.

Ricordo looked at him, his eyes half closed; nevertheless, there was evident interest in his gaze.

"We in the East do not play the game. But when I came to England – what would you? – what others did, I did. That is the English fashion, eh?" and he laughed quietly.

"Have you a handicap?" asked Sprague.

"A what?"

"A handicap. That means – well, it is a number of strokes allowed to a player."

"A handicap. Ah, yes, I am handicapped; but not in that way, signore. I am afraid I do not play well enough even to have a handicap."

"Won't you join us?" asked Purvis. "We can easily make a threesome."

The stranger darted a look, not at Purvis, but at Sprague, and he saw that he did not take the proposition kindly. Both Purvis and Sprague were good players, and especially the latter did not wish the game spoiled.

"I cannot refuse such a kind invitation," said Signor Ricordo. "But I will not interfere with your play. Let the match be between you two, while I will struggle on as best I may. If – if I do not prove such a – a – what do you call it? – duffer as I fear, then I might sometimes enter into the competition; but that, I imagine, will not be. Still, I cannot refuse such courtesy."

He looked a striking figure as he stood by them. His clothes, although not very different from those worn by the others, were somewhat foreign in style; while his fez, surmounting his dark, Oriental-looking face, would single him out anywhere as an Eastern.

"Will you proceed, gentlemen?" he continued; "as for me, I will bring up the rear. If I find I am spoiling your game, I will drop out."

Purvis and Sprague tossed for the honour, and the former, having won it, drove first. His ball flew straight as an arrow towards the distant flag. Sprague followed next, and sent his ball within a dozen yards of the one which Purvis had driven.

"Ah," said Signore Ricordo, "I feel humbled before I begin. I see I shall not long deserve your society."

He struck his ball, and foozled it badly. It went away among the heather, where some two or three minutes were spent in finding it. Sprague and Purvis halved the hole, while Ricordo was several strokes down.

"We shall have to get rid of the fellow," said Sprague. "You see he's only a beginner."

"Let us be civil," said Purvis. "We are staying at the same place, and he promises to be interesting."

The next hole Ricordo fared a little better, but only a little. Sprague began to think of some hint he could give him that would cause him to leave them.

"I will play one or two holes more with you, Mr. – Mr. – ah, I am afraid I did not catch your name."

"Sprague is my name."

"Sprague, Sprague – thank you; yes, I will remember. My name is Ricordo – that means remember, and I will remember, yes."

"And mine is Purvis."

"Thank you. Yes, I will remember. I will play one or two holes more with you, and then, if I continue to be such a – duffer – yes, that is the word – then I will go away, and challenge you for to-morrow."

"Golf is a difficult game," said Sprague; "one does not pick it up in a day."

"Ah, you do not think I will be a match for you to-morrow."

"Why, do you?" and Sprague laughed lightly.

"If not to-morrow, then the next day. I never rest until I am a match for my – what do you call it – enemy?"

"Not quite so bad as that – opponent," said Purvis.

"Opponent, yes, that is the word. I learnt English when I was a boy, but I have had such little practice at it lately, and so – but there, I will remember. Whenever I play a game – and is not life a game? – I am often beaten at first. But then I remember that there is always a to-morrow, and so I go on."

"Until you are a match for your opponent?"

"Until I have beaten him," said Ricordo.

Sprague laughed. "A lot of to-morrows are required in golf, Mr. Ricordo," he said.

"Yes, they are required for most things; but they come. Still, this match is only just begun yet. Who knows? I may improve!"

This conversation had taken place while walking from the green to the tee, which in this case was some little distance.

For the next five holes Sprague and Purvis played with varying fortunes, but when the seventh hole was played the former was one up. As for Ricordo, while he greatly improved, he did not even halve a single hole with either of them. As he improved they offered to give him strokes, and so make the possibility of a match, but he refused.

"I always like to play level," he said sententiously. "You never beat a man if he gives you strokes. Let me see, I am now seven down. If I lose two more it will be impossible for me to win the match, eh?"

"That is the arithmetic of it, I imagine," said Purvis.

"Ah!" said Ricordo.

Ding! Ding! Ding! The three balls flew through the air, and each went straight to the green, only in this case Ricordo's ball went several yards further than the others.

"That was a lucky stroke of mine," he said, as he saw them exchange significant glances. "Ah! if I could only do it always!"

For the first time Sprague felt a suggestion of competition in the game. Although he was seven holes up on the stranger, and they had only eleven more to play, the possibility of losing flashed into his mind. Besides, he felt some little resentment, because of the superior way in which the foreigner spoke. He seized an iron club, and placed his ball within two yards of the hole.

"Why, that is magnificent," remarked Ricordo. "That is where skill comes in."

Purvis came next, and while he sent his ball on the green, it was at an extreme corner.

"If I lose this hole, my chance of winning on you shrinks to a vanishing point," remarked Ricordo. "Well, I must not lose it."

He looked at the ball steadily, and then turned to his companions.

"Is it not whimsical?" he said. "This little thing seems to have become a part of our life, eh? And the game of golf is also a game of life, non e vero? Forgive me, signores, but I am an Eastern, and everything in life is a parable to such as I."

He struck the ball, and laid it, according to golfers' parlance, "dead."

"Fine shot," said Purvis; as for Sprague, he said nothing.

For the first time Purvis lost a hole to Ricordo, but Sprague halved it with him.

"Good hole," remarked Purvis. "One under bogey."

"Ah yes," said Ricordo, "but I cannot afford even to halve with Mr. Sprague if I am to win the match, eh? Seven up and ten to play. No, I must win, and not halve. I have lost so much in the beginning of the game. The game of life is always hard to win, when you lose in the beginning."

Sprague took the honour, and drove with unerring precision. As he saw it fall, a look of satisfaction came into his eyes.

"Longest ball you've driven to-day, Sprague," said Purvis. "It's possible to reach the green with a good 'brassy' from there."

"Nasty hazard just before the green, by the look of it," remarked Sprague, looking steadily.

"Ther' iz, zur," said one of the caddies, "great big pit overgrawed weth vuss and vearny stuff."

Ricordo addressed his ball. It was teed rather too high, and he patted it down. A moment later he made his shot. There was a slight curve on it, but he outdrove Sprague by two or three yards. Purvis foozled his drive for the first time.

"Are you going to try it?" asked Purvis, as Sprague stood before his ball.

"It's risky," said the other. "Do your players here carry that green in two?" he asked the caddy who pulled out an iron for him.

"'T 'ave bin dun, zur," replied the caddy. "The perfeshernal 'ave done et, an' a gen'leman from London; but moasly they doan't. Bezides, ther's a little wind."

"I'll try it," said Sprague, taking the brassy.

He struck the ball fairly, but it did not carry. It fell into the bushes.

Sprague suppressed an angry exclamation.

"Goin' to play for safety, zur?" asked the caddy of Ricordo.

Ricordo took the brassy from the boy, and looked steadily towards the green.

"Risky," remarked Purvis, almost involuntarily. He knew that according to strict rules he had no right to say anything.

"The essence of life is risk," remarked Ricordo. Somehow both felt that he was a different man from what he had been an hour before. He no longer seemed to be playing a game upon which nothing depended, but to be struggling for a great victory in life. His eyes were no longer half closed, and the old expression of cynical indifference was gone. A few seconds later his ball fell within six yards of the pin.

Neither of the players uttered a sound; but the boys could not suppress their admiration.

"You are six up at the turn, signore," remarked Ricordo to Sprague. "That is odds against one; but noi verremo."

Sprague walked silently to the next tee. It was the first hole he had lost to the foreigner, and although his position seemed well-nigh impregnable, he had a fear of losing. He felt as though he were not playing with a man, but with fate.

Ricordo took the honour. The green was over two hundred yards away, but he landed his ball safely on it. Sprague drove next; he failed to reach it by more than thirty yards. Purvis fared no better. Again Ricordo won the hole.

"Five up, and eight to play," he laughed pleasantly. "I cannot afford to make any mistakes, signore."

Ding, dong, went the balls. When they had played the seventeenth hole, Ricordo had actually placed himself one up on Purvis, and was all square with Sprague. The game was to be finished on the last green.

"Ah, I like that," said Ricordo lightly. "Life is never interesting when everything is settled early in the game, eh, Mr. Sprague? And everything is worth so much more when we win by a single bold stroke, eh?"

Why it was, Sprague could not tell, but his heart beat faster than was its wont. An atmosphere of grim earnestness possessed him, and more, a fear filled his heart. After having the game in his hands he was in danger of losing it. Not that he had played badly. In nearly every case he had been level with bogey, but then in nearly every case for the last nine holes the stranger had beaten him by a stroke. Yes, he was angry. The man had commenced as a beginner, he had thrown away his chances, and yet he had recovered all the ground he had lost. More than once he caught himself watching Ricordo's dark features. The fez which surmounted his face made him look sinister. The black beard and moustache covered his mouth, but he fancied a mocking smile playing around his lips. The man impressed him as a mystery. Sometimes he found himself thinking of him as an Englishman, but again strange fancies flitted through his mind concerning him. He pictured him away in desert places, dreaming of dark things.

"Anyhow, I can't win," said Purvis. "The best I can do is to halve the match with you, Mr. Ricordo."

"But I have a chance of winning," said Sprague. "By the way, signore, we've had nothing on the game. What do you say to a stake on this hole?"

"No, Mr. Sprague, I never play for stakes, except the stake of life."

"What do you mean?"

"A game is always more than a game to me. It has destiny in it. Thus we are playing for stakes, great stakes."

"What are they?"

"Ah, who can tell? Perhaps for heaven, perhaps for hell."

"Oh, I say!"

They were now standing on the eighteenth tee, and the green was near the club-house. Close to the flag they saw a woman and a man.

"Do you know who that is on the green?" Ricordo asked of the caddy who had made his tee and was moving away.

"Yes, zur; 'tes Miss Castlemaine, wot the links do belong to, and Muster Briarfield." The lad rushed away towards the green.

"Ah!" said Ricordo, "we may be playing for the lady – who knows?"

He looked at Sprague as he spoke, and noted the pallor of his face.

"Do you know Miss Castlemaine?" asked Purvis.

"I expected to see her when I came here," said the stranger; "but, as I said to Mr. Briarfield last night, although I have been here several days, I have not yet had the felicity of setting eyes on her. But fortune favours me now. Ah, we are playing for a great stake, Mr. Sprague. Who knows?"

"Perhaps the man who is standing by her side will win her," laughed Purvis. He hardly knew why he spoke.

"The man who is standing by may see most of the game," said Ricordo, "but he never wins – never. It is only the man who plays who wins. Ah, gentlemen, discussing the stakes on a tee is bad preparation for a stroke; therefore we will dismiss the subject. Besides, I never make wagers. Life itself is the wager."

He struck his ball, and although it flew far, it had what golfers call a "slice" on it. It cleared the hazard, but curled away to the right of the large green, at least twenty yards from the hole. He made no remark, but moved aside for Sprague to play.

"You've got your chance, Sprague," said Purvis in low tones. "A good straight shot, and you are close to the tee; it can't be more than a hundred and eighty yards."

Sprague felt his hands tremble. He had not missed a drive for the round; he determined he would not miss now. The stranger had made him feel that the game was a game of life. He knew not why, but it seemed to him that the future would depend on whether he won or lost.

His ball flew through the air. It was struck, and clean and true; it fell within ten yards of the hole.

"Good!" said Purvis, "a good putt, and you are down in two." Somehow, he had lost interest in the game himself: all interest was centred in the other two. Even when his ball failed to reach the green he did not mind; he did not care if he lost.

When they reached the green, they found that Sprague's ball had stymied Ricordo's – that is to say, it lay on the green on a straight line between Ricordo's ball and the hole.

"Will you either play out, or pick up your ball, signore?" said Ricordo quietly. "I believe it is the law that there are no stymies in a three-ball match."

He said this because Sprague stood waiting for him to play.

"If it is a stymie, certainly," he said, almost angrily.

"Look for yourself," said the stranger.

Sprague looked. "Very well, I'll play it out," he said.

He cast a hasty glance around, and saw that Olive Castlemaine and Herbert Briarfield had moved to the edge of the green and were watching the contest.

Sprague measured the distance carefully, then seizing the putter he played. The ball rolled to the lip of the hole, and stopped. His heart almost ceased to beat. Then perhaps a blade of grass bent or a breath of wind stirred – anyhow, the ball dropped into the hole.

Ricordo laughed pleasantly. "Ah, we halve it, I see," he said.

"It will take you all your time to do that," said Sprague triumphantly.

His words had scarcely escaped his lips when Signor Ricordo's ball came rolling across the green.

"Too lively," thought Purvis; but he was mistaken. It came straight to the hole and dropped in.

They heard some one clapping on the edge of the green; it was Herbert Briarfield, who had been watching.

"We will play it out another day," said Sprague.

Signor Ricordo walked away towards the spot where Herbert Briarfield and Olive Castlemaine stood. His eyes had half closed again, while the old air of cynical melancholy manifested itself in his face.

CHAPTER XXII
SIGNOR RICORDO AND OLIVE

"That was a fine putt of yours, signore; did you win the match?" said Herbert Briarfield, as he came up.

"No, it was only halved. The game has to be played out yet."

"Signore, let me introduce you to Miss Castlemaine, to whose goodness we owe these links."

Olive looked at him eagerly. She half held out her hand, but the stranger did not offer to take it. He bowed low, placing his right hand on his fez; but he did not lift it.

"I am greatly honoured," he said, in low tones, and Briarfield thought he detected an accent which he had not noticed before.

"You are enjoying your visit here, signore, I hope," said Olive, looking towards him curiously.

"It is becoming more interesting each day," was his reply.

"I am very glad," said Olive. "Perhaps you felt the place rather strange at first, and now, as you find congenial acquaintances, you feel, as we English say, 'more at home.'"

"Yes, I am making acquaintances. This morning, for example, I have enlarged the circle, and I found Mr. Sprague and Mr. Purvis very interesting."

"Whom did you say?" asked Olive quickly.

"Mr. Sprague and Mr. Purvis," said Ricordo, emphasising their names just as a foreigner might do. "Ah, you know them? I think they are coming this way."

"I must get back, Mr. Briarfield," said Olive quickly. "Father is expecting me to lunch."

"I will walk back with you," said Briarfield.

"And I, too, if I may," said Ricordo.

"You are not playing this afternoon?" said Briarfield.

"No, I think I am lazy, or perhaps I am getting old. We Easterns, you know, love to sit in the sun rather than exercise in it. Not that I feel tired. The air here gives one vigour. Ah, Miss Castlemaine, you were a benefactress to the tired part of the people of your country when you built your homestead."

"Only to a small degree, I am afraid," replied Olive. "It is only the few who can take advantage of it."

"Ah, but if all, situated as you are, would do likewise – " remarked Ricordo. "But there, I must not complain, I am one of the few. Besides, I have more than my deserts. I have not been regarded as an alien. Ah, you must be very trustful to take a stranger in without asking questions."

"Miss Castlemaine is no respecter of nationalities," interposed Herbert Briarfield.

"Ah, no, to be poor, to be tired – that is enough. But Mr. Sprague and Mr. Purvis, whom I played the golf with, they did not look either poor or tired. But perhaps they know you – they spoke as though they did."

Olive did not reply, neither did she meet the eyes of Ricordo, which were lifted to her face. She wondered whether they had told this man anything of the past.

"And you like Vale Linden?" she asked presently, in order to break the silence.

"It is the Garden of Eden," replied Ricordo; "yes, the Garden of Eden before the serpent brought trouble."

She wanted to speak in reply; but nothing came to her to say. She felt that Herbert Briarfield was right. The man suggested mystery; she was not sure that he had favourably impressed her, and yet there was a kind of fascination in his presence.

"You know England?" she said presently; "you speak our language so well, you must have spent a good deal of time in the country."

"Can any man know a country?" asked Ricordo. "The geography, that is not difficult. An hour with a map, and even London can be known. But the fields, the hills, the roads, the towns, they do not make a country. The people of England, then? Ah, I am profoundly ignorant of the people."

"And yet we are not a difficult people to understand," remarked Olive.

"No, you think not? I do not know, I have never tried to know."

"No?"

"I am content to look on the surface."

"Is not that a strange attitude of mind for an Eastern?"

"I am afraid I do not follow you."

"Well, I have always been led to believe that people from the East are very philosophical and great seekers after truth."

"Ah, but years teach wisdom, signorina, and that wisdom says, 'Never seek the truth.'"

"Why?"

"Because truth is never worth the knowing."

He spoke quite naturally, and did not seem to be aware that he was making a cynical statement. Neither did he lift his eyes to her. He walked slowly, keeping his eyes on the ground.

Olive felt a strange fascination in his presence; moreover, she could not feel that she was speaking to a stranger. She had a feeling that she had seen him before, heard him speak before. And yet everything about him was strange. His voice was not familiar to her, and it had a peculiar fluid tone which sounded un-English, and yet she fancied that she had heard it somewhere. As she listened, she found herself recalling the past, and thinking of the days before the dark shadow fell upon her life. Without knowing why, she found herself thinking of Leicester. The stranger's cynicism reminded her of the night when she first met him. She remembered how Leicester had dominated the gathering at her father's house, and that she had found herself admiring him, even while she had disagreed with everything he had said. The same thing was happening now. Herbert Briarfield, of whom she had thought a great deal during the last few days, seemed to have sunk in the background. He was one who did not matter, while the man who was a stranger had blotted him out. Perhaps this was because she found herself putting a double meaning on everything he said. Of course this might be because, owing to his Eastern associations, he would regard things differently from the way an Englishman would regard them; but she had spoken to men from the Orient before, and they had not impressed her in the same way. Still, she felt a kind of pleasure in matching her wits with his, even although she felt she might not come off best in the encounter.

"But would not your attitude of mind be fatal if it were universal, signore?" she asked.

"Pardon me, I think it is universal."

"You mean that we are not anxious to find the truth?"

"Exactly. Mind you, I do not say that you English people who boast of your honesty do not in theory hold that truth is the great thing to be sought after; but in action, in life, no. Let a man be true to truth and he is put down as a madman, a fool."

"Would you mind giving an example?"

"A dozen if you like. Here is one. It is a commonly accepted theory that well-being, happiness, depends not on what we possess, but on what we are. That 'to be' is more than 'to have.' How many are true to their creed? One in a million? Where one spends his energies in enriching his life, a million spend theirs on seeking to obtain what by common consent is evanescent. If half the energy were spent on beautifying character that is spent on 'getting on' in the ordinary acceptance of the term, what Christians call the millennium would come."

"Are you not assuming a great deal, signore?"

"But what, signorina?"

"That you understand the motives of the human heart?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"One judges by what one sees," he said. "And it is best to content oneself with that. The man who looks beneath the surface goes mad."

"And yet you are not mad?" and she laughed gaily.

"I am not sure," he said, and there was a quiet intensity in his tones – "no, I am not sure. Sometimes I think I am. But what then, signorina? We have our little lives to live, our little part to play on the world's stage."

Again she was reminded of Leicester, and as she thought of him a kind of shiver passed through her. This was Leicester over again; but another Leicester – a Leicester with a difference.

"But why play it, if it is so bad?"

"Ah, signorina, do you not think I have asked that question a thousand times? But then I have lived in the East. What can a man do against fate? The Arabians have got hold of a great truth: Kismet. Is not all philosophy centred in that?"

"No," she said, "I do not think so. If that is true, then every bad deed done would be the expression of God's will. Every murder, outrage, and abomination has His sanction, His benediction."

"Signorina has never lived in the East?"

"I do not see that that matters."

Signor Ricordo laughed quietly.

"It is refreshing to hear you," he said. "I can see into your mind now. You are thinking that the fatalistic doctrine destroys all virtue, all responsibility."

"Exactly."

"And yet are we responsible? Is not every action of life determined for us by circumstances, disposition, heredity, all forces over which we have no control?"

"And after you admit all that, every faculty of your being tells you you are responsible. After you have conceded every fatalist argument, you know that it is wrong. And more, you know that when you do wrong you are haunted by remorse, because you feel that you could have done right."

"Right! wrong!" said Ricordo, and he laughed in his soft, insinuating way.

"You do not believe in them?"

"Ah, signorina, let us cease to argue. Your faith is a tree which has borne such beautiful flowers and such wondrous fruits that you baffle logic. But then, signorina, you have never lived in hell."

Both Herbert Briarfield and Olive cast quick glances at him, but he did not alter his position; he walked quietly on, his eyes fixed on the ground.

"I say, Signor Ricordo," said Briarfield in an expostulating tone.

"That's why I am afraid of the truth," went on Ricordo, without seeming to notice Briarfield. "When a man has lived in hell for years, it upsets preconceived notions, it scatters logic to the winds, it makes conventional morality appear to be – what it is."

Olive Castlemaine felt that the man had thrown a kind of spell upon her. She did not realise that, to say the least, their conversation was not what was natural between people who had met for the first time. Had any one told her the previous day that on meeting a stranger of whom she knew nothing she would enter into a discussion with him on such topics, she would have laughed at it as impossible, yet she felt nothing of the incongruity of the situation. Somehow Ricordo seemed like a voice out of the past, and for a time she forgot things present.

"You have lived – that is – "

"Yes, Miss Castlemaine, I have lived in hell. I have been deeper into its depths than Dante ever saw. The flames which he saw have burnt me, the 'thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice,' which Shakespeare spoke of have crushed out of me all those qualities natural to humanity. Nay, I forgot, not all, not all!"