"
"You are mistaken; you have been recognized. I was sent for to identify
you."
Then the proud face did grow pale, but the proud light did not die out
of the gray eyes.
"I am sorry for it, but I cannot help it. I must 'dree my weird.'"
Mr. Forster stood looking at him like one stupefied.
"If the sun had fallen from the heavens," he said, "it would not have
surprised me more. Surely, surely you are going to trust me and tell me
what this means?"
"I cannot. Go on with everything just the same. Tell my mother I have
gone abroad for six months, and if you value my name, keep my secret
from spreading, if you can."
And then a rough voice called John Smith to the prison van.
CHAPTER III.
The Papers Again.
Mr. Foster went home in a terrible rage. His clerks could not imagine
what had happened. He looked pale, worried, anxious and miserable. "I
should not think," he said to himself, "that such a thing ever happened
in the world before." His clients thought him bad tempered; he had the
air of a man with whom everything had gone wrong--out of sorts with all
the world.
"The man is mad," he said to himself, with a shrug of his shoulders;
"neither more nor less than mad to fling away his life and disgrace his
name. It is useless to think it will never be known; those stupid papers
are sure to get hold of it, and then there is little chance of secrecy."
He went about his work with a very unsettled, wretched expression on his
shrewd face.
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