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half hidden by a small belt of brushwood, a group of officers, and I could hear them laughing. 'Is that an Indian cry, Springfield?' some one said. 'Yes, there's a legend that it is always heard the night before there's a kind of vendetta.' Springfield's voice reached us quite clearly, and I looked instinctively towards Paul Edgecumbe. 'I know that voice! I know it!' and the intensity of his feeling was manifested in every word he spoke. 'Silence,' I whispered, 'and come with me, quickly!' I drew him to a spot from which, without being observed, he could see Springfield's face. 'That is he, _that's_ he,' he whispered hoarsely. 'I know him,--I know him!' 'Who is he?' I asked. 'I--oh!--no,--I don't know.' From pain, almost amounting to agony, the expression on his face had changed to that of intense loathing, of infinite contempt. 'Let's get away,' he said; 'this air is polluted.' A few minutes later, we had come to the rest-house where I had been brought after my shaking-up, and I saw that the letters had come. 'Wait a minute,' I said. 'I want to hear the end of your story.' There was only one letter for me, and I saw at a glance that it had come from Lorna Bolivick. It was a long, newsy epistle, only one part of which I need quote here. It referred to Paul Edgecumbe's photograph. 'Thank you,' she wrote, 'for sending me that picture of your protege. What a strange-looking man! I don't think I ever saw a face quite like it before, and hasn't he wonderful eyes! I felt, even while looking at it, that he was reading my very soul. I am sure he has had wonderful experiences, and has seen things undreamed of by such as I. I had a kind of feeling, when I asked you for it, that I might have met him, or seen him somewhere; but I never have. His face is like no other I have ever seen, although, in spite of its strangeness, it is wonderfully striking. If ever you have a chance, you must bring him to see me. I am sure I should like to talk to him. A man who has a face like that couldn't help being interesting.' Here was the final blow which shattered all my suspicions. In spite of repeated assurances to the contrary, I retained the impression that Paul Edgecumbe and Maurice St. Mabyn were the same person. Now I knew that it was impossible. Lorna Bolivick's testimony was final, all the more final because she had no thought of what was in my own mind. And yet I knew that Paul Edgecu
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