seemed to be reaching, groping for
some astonishing truth that eluded him.

The old man ran, in great strides, toward him. "My God, aren't you Ben
Darby?" he demanded.

The convict answered him as from a great distance, his voice cool and
calm with an infinite certainty. "Of course," he said. "Of course I'm
Darby."

II

For the moment that chance meeting thrilled all the spectators with the
sense of monumental drama. The convicts stared; Howard, the second
guard, forgot his vigilance and stared with open mouth. He started
absurdly, rather guiltily, when the old man whirled toward him.

"What are you doing with Ben Darby in a convict gang?" the old wanderer
demanded.

"What am I doin'?" Howard's astonishment gave way to righteous
indignation. "I'm guardin' convicts, that's what I'm a-doin'." He
composed himself then and shifted his gun from his left to his right
shoulder. "He's here in this gang because he's a convict. Ask my friend,
here, if you want to know the details. And who might you be?"

There was no immediate answer to that question. The old man had turned
his eyes again to the tall, trembling figure of Ben, trying to find
further proof of his identity. To Ezra Melville there could no longer be
any shadow of doubt as to the truth: even that he had found the young
man working in a gang of convicts could not impugn the fact that the
dark-gray vivid eyes, set in the vivid face under dark, beetling brows,
were unquestionably those of the boy he had seen grow to manhood's
years, Ben Darby.

It was true that he had changed. His face was more deeply lined, his
eyes more bright and nervous; there was a long, dark scar just under the
short hair at his temple that Melville had never seen before. And the
finality of despair seemed to settle over the droll features as he
walked nearer and took Darby's hand.

"Ben, Ben!" he said, evidently struggling with deep emotion. "What are
you doing here?"

The younger man gave him his hand, but continued to stare at him in
growing bewilderment. "Five years--for burglary," he answered simply.
"Guilty, too--I don't know anything more. And I can't remember--who you
are."

"You don't know me?" Some of Ben's own bewilderment seemed to pass to
him. "You know Ezra Melville--"

Sprigley, whose beliefs in regard to Ben had been strengthened by the
little episode, stepped quickly to Melville's side. "He's suffering loss
of memory," he explained swiftly. "At least, he's e