Don't
stare. Do you think he'll know me? Not much! I left Dorset a smooth-
faced boy; to-day I'm bearded like the pard. My voice, my figure, the
colour of my hair, my complexion are quite unrecognisable. It may be
necessary to show the governor my grave, but I shan't bring him down
here. Now, I must commit murder as well as suicide."
"What?"
"I must kill you, you duffer! Do you think my father would return to
England without thanking the man who was kind to his dear lad? And you
would give the whole snap away. Yes; I'll call upon him as Cartwright,
the administrator of the late Tudor Crisp's estate. If it were not for
that confounded grave and marble cross, I could fix him in ten
minutes. Don't frown. I tell you, 'Bishop,' you're not half the fellow
you were."
"Perhaps not," replied his reverence humbly.
But when Dick was alone he muttered to himself: "Now what the deuce
did the governor mean by a curious change in his fortunes?"
* * * * *
The Rev. George Carteret was sitting at ease in his comfortable rooms
at the Acropolis Hotel. The luxury of them was new to him, yet not
unpleasing after many years of rigorous self-denial and poverty.
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