I

Sebastian Levinne was in his office going into the details of a ticklish contract when a telegram was brought to him. He opened it carelessly, for he received forty or fifty telegrams a day. After he had read it, he held it in his hand looking at it.

Then he crumpled it up, slipped it into his pocket and spoke to Lewis, his right-hand man.

“Get on with this thing as best you can,” he said curtly. “I’m called out of town.”

He took no heed of the protestations that arose, but left the room. He paused to tell his secretary to see to the cancelling of various appointments and then went home, packed a bag, and took a taxi to Waterloo. There he unfolded the telegram again and read it.

Please come at once if you can very urgent Jane Wilts Hotel Wiltsbury.

It was a proof of his confidence and respect for Jane that he never hesitated. He trusted Jane as he trusted no one else in the world. If Jane said a thing was urgent, it was urgent. He obeyed the summons without wasting a thought of regret on the necessary complications it would cause. For no one else in the world, be it said, would he have done that.

On arriving at Wiltsbury he drove straight to the hotel and asked for her. She had engaged a private room, and there she met him with outstretched hands.

“Sebastian⁠—my dear⁠—you’ve been marvellously quick.”

“I came at once.” He slipped off his coat and threw it over the back of a chair. “What is it, Jane?”

“It’s Vernon.”

Sebastian looked puzzled.

“What about him?”

“He’s not dead. I’ve seen him.”

Sebastian stared at her for a minute, then drew a chair to the table and sat down.

“It’s not like you, Jane, but I think, for once in your life, you must have been mistaken.”

“I wasn’t mistaken. It’s possible, I suppose, for the War Office to have made an error?”

“Errors have been made more than once⁠—but they’ve usually been contradicted fairly soon. It stands to reason that they must be. If Vernon’s alive, what’s he been doing all this time?”

She shook her head.

“That I can’t say. But I’m as sure about its being Vernon as I am that it’s you here now.”

She spoke curtly but very confidently.

He stared at her very hard, then nodded.

“Tell me,” he said.

Jane spoke quietly and composedly.

“There’s an American here, a Mr. Bleibner. I met him out in Serbia. We recognized each other in the street. He told me he was staying at the County Hotel and asked me to lunch today. I went. Afterwards it was raining. He wouldn’t hear of my walking back. His car was there and would take me. His car did take me. Sebastian, the chauffeur was Vernon⁠—and he didn’t know me.”

Sebastian considered the matter. “You’re sure you weren’t deceived by some strong resemblance?”

“Perfectly sure.”

“Then why didn’t Vernon recognize you? He was pretending, I suppose.”

“No, I don’t think so⁠—in fact, I’m sure he wasn’t. He would be bound to give some sign⁠—a start⁠—something. He couldn’t have been expecting to see me. He couldn’t have controlled his first surprise. Besides, he looked⁠—different.”

“How different?”

Jane considered.

“It’s hard to explain. Rather happy and jolly and⁠—just faintly⁠—like his mother.”

“Extraordinary,” said Sebastian. “I’m glad you sent for me. If it is Vernon⁠—well, it’s going to be the devil of a business. Nell having married again and everything. We don’t want reporters coming down like wolves on the fold. I suppose there’ll have to be some publicity.” He got up, walked up and down. “The first thing is to get hold of Bleibner.”

“I telephoned to him, asking him to be here at six-thirty. I didn’t dare leave it, though I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to get here so soon. Bleibner will be here any minute.”

“Good for you, Jane. We must hear what he’s got to say.”

There was a knock at the door and Mr. Bleibner was announced. Jane rose to meet him.

“It’s very good of you to come, Mr. Bleibner,” she began.

“Not at all,” said the American. “Always delighted to oblige a lady. And you said that the matter you wanted to see me about was urgent.”

“It is. This is Mr. Sebastian Levinne.”

“The Mr. Sebastian Levinne? I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.”

The two men shook hands.

“And now, Mr. Bleibner,” said Jane. “I’ll come straight to what I want to talk to you about. How long have you had your chauffeur, and what can you tell us about him?”

Mr. Bleibner was plainly surprised and showed it.

“Green? You want to know about Green?”

“Yes.”

“Well⁠—” The American reflected. “I’ve no objections to telling you what I know. I guess you wouldn’t ask without a good reason. I know you well enough for that, Miss Harding. I picked up Green in Holland not long after the armistice. He was working in a local garage. I discovered he was an Englishman and began to take an interest in him. I asked him his history and he was pretty vague about it. I thought at first he had something to conceal, but I soon convinced myself that he was genuine enough. The man was in a kind of mental fog. He knew his name and where he came from but very little else.”

“Lost memory,” said Sebastian softly. “I see.”

“His father was killed in the South African war, he told me. He remembered his father singing in the village choir, and he remembered a brother whom he used to call Squirrel.”

“And he was quite sure about his own name?”

“Oh! yes. As a matter of fact he’d got it written down in a small pocketbook. There was an accident, you know. He was knocked down by a lorry. That’s how they knew who he was. They asked him if his name was Green and he said Yes⁠—George. He was very popular at the garage, he was so sunny and lighthearted. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Green out of temper.

“Well, I took a fancy to the young chap. I’ve seen a few shell-shocked cases, and his state wasn’t any mystery to me. He showed me the entry in his pocketbook, and I made a few inquiries. I soon found the reason⁠—there always is a reason, you know⁠—for his loss of memory. Corporal George Green, London Fusiliers, was a deserter.

“There, you have it. He’d funked things⁠—and being a decent young fellow really, he couldn’t face the fact. I explained it all to him. He said⁠—rather wonderingly: ‘I shouldn’t have thought I could ever desert⁠—not desert.’ I explained to him that that point of view was just the reason he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember because he didn’t want to remember.

“He listened but I don’t think he was very convinced. I felt, and still feel, extremely sorry for him. I didn’t think there was any obligation on my part to report his existence to the military authorities. I took him into my service and offered him a chance to make good. I’ve never had cause to regret it. He’s an excellent chauffeur⁠—punctual, intelligent, a good mechanic, and always sunny tempered and obliging.”

Mr. Bleibner paused and looked inquiringly at Jane and Sebastian. Their pale serious faces impressed him.

“It’s frightening,” said Jane in her low voice. “It’s one of the most frightening things that could happen.”

Sebastian took her hand and squeezed it.

“It’s all right, Jane.”

Jane roused herself with a slight shiver and spoke to the American.

“I think it’s our turn to explain. You see, Mr. Bleibner, in your chauffeur I recognized an old friend⁠—and he didn’t recognize me.”

“In‑deed!”

“But his name wasn’t Green,” said Sebastian.

“No? You mean he enlisted under another name?”

“No. There’s something there that seems incomprehensible. I suppose we shall get at it some day. In the meantime, I will ask you, Mr. Bleibner, not to repeat this conversation to anyone. There’s a wife in the matter, and⁠—oh! many other considerations.”

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Bleibner. “You can trust me to be absolutely silent. But what next? Do you want to see Green?”

Sebastian looked at Jane and she bowed her head.

“Yes,” said Sebastian slowly. “I think perhaps that would be the best plan.”

The American rose.

“He’s below now. He brought me here. I’ll send him up right away.”

II

George Green mounted the stairs with his usual buoyant step. As he did so he wondered what had happened to upset the old josser⁠—by that term meaning his employer. Very queer the old buffer had looked.

“The door at the top of the stairs,” Mr. Bleibner had said.

George Green rapped on it sharply with his knuckles and waited. A voice called “Come in” and he obeyed.

There were two people in the room⁠—the lady he had driven home yesterday (whom he thought of in his own mind as a tip-topper) and a big, rather fat man with a very yellow face and projecting ears. His face seemed vaguely familiar to the chauffeur. For a moment he stood there while they both stared at him. He thought: “What’s the matter with everybody this evening?”

He said, “Yes, sir?” in a respectful voice to the yellow gentleman. He went on: “Mr. Bleibner told me to come up.”

The yellow gentleman seemed to recover himself.

“Yes, yes,” he said. “That’s right. Sit down⁠—er⁠—Green. That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. George Green.”

He sat down, respectfully, in the chair indicated. The yellow gentleman handed him a cigarette case and said, “Help yourself.” And all the time, his eyes, small piercing eyes, never left Green’s face. That intent burning gaze made the chauffeur uneasy. What was up with everyone tonight?

“I wanted to ask you a few questions. To begin with, have you ever seen me before?”

Green shook his head.

“No, sir.”

“Sure?” persisted the other.

A faint trace of uncertainty crept into Green’s voice.

“I⁠—I don’t think so,” he said doubtfully.

“My name is Sebastian Levinne.”

The chauffeur’s face cleared.

“Of course, sir, I’ve seen your picture in the papers. I thought it seemed familiar somehow.”

There was a pause, and then Sebastian Levinne asked casually:

“Have you ever heard the name of Vernon Deyre?”

“Vernon Deyre,” Green repeated the name thoughtfully. He frowned perplexedly. “The name seems somehow familiar to me, sir, but I can’t quite place it.” He paused, the frown deepening. “I think I’ve heard it.” And then added, “The gentleman’s dead, isn’t he?”

“So that’s your impression, is it? That the gentleman is dead.”

“Yes, sir, and a good⁠—”

He stopped suddenly, crimsoning.

“Go on,” said Levinne. “What were you going to say?” He added shrewdly, perceiving where the trouble lay, “You need not mince your words. Mr. Deyre was no relation of mine.”

The chauffeur accepted the implication.

“I was going to say a good job, too⁠—but I don’t know that I ought to say it, since I can’t remember anything about him. But I’ve got a kind of impression that⁠—well, that he was best out of the way, so to speak. Made rather a mess of things, hadn’t he?”

“You knew him?”

The frown deepened in an agony of attempted recollection.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the chauffeur apologized. “Since the war things seemed to have got a bit mixed up. I can’t always recollect things clearly. I don’t know where I came across Mr. Deyre, and why I disliked him, but I do know that I’m thankful to hear that he’s dead. He was no good⁠—you can take my word for that.”

There was a silence, only broken by something like a smothered sob from the other occupant of the room. Levinne turned to her.

“Telephone to the theatre, Jane,” he said. “You can’t appear tonight.”

She nodded and left the room. Levinne looked after her and then said abruptly:

“You’ve seen Miss Harding before?”

“Yes, sir. I drove her home today.”

Levinne sighed. Green looked at him inquiringly.

“Is⁠—is that all, sir? I’m sorry to have been so little use. I know I’ve been a bit⁠—well, queer since the war. My own fault. Perhaps Mr. Bleibner told you⁠—I⁠—I didn’t do my duty as I should have done.”

His face flushed but he brought out the words resolutely. Had the old josser told them or not? Better to say that anyway. At the same time, a pang of shame pierced him keenly. He was a deserter, a man who had run away! A rotten business.

Jane Harding came back into the room and resumed her place behind the table. She looked paler than when she had gone out, Green thought. Curious eyes she had⁠—so deep and tragic. He wondered what she was thinking about. Perhaps she had been engaged to this Mr. Deyre. No, Mr. Levinne wouldn’t have urged him to speak out if that had been the case. It was probably all to do with money. A will, or something like that.

Mr. Levinne began questioning him again. He made no reference to the last sentence.

“Your father was killed in the Boer War, I believe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You remember him?”

“Oh! yes, sir.”

“What did he look like?”

Green smiled. The memory was pleasant to him.

“A burly sort of chap. Mutton chop whiskers. Very bright blue eyes. I remember him as well as anything singing in the choir. Baritone voice he had.”

He smiled happily.

“And he was killed in the Boer War?”

A sudden look of doubt crept into Green’s face. He seemed worried⁠—distressed. His eyes looked pathetically across the table like a dog at fault.

“It’s queer,” he said. “I never thought of that. He’d be too old. He⁠—and yet I’d swear⁠—I’m sure⁠—”

The look of distress in his eyes was so acute that the other said, “Never mind,” and went on: “Are you married, Green?”

“No, sir.”

The answer came with prompt assurance.

“You seem very certain about that,” said Mr. Levinne smiling.

“I am, sir. It leads to nothing but trouble⁠—mixing yourself up with women.” He stopped abruptly and said to Jane: “I beg your pardon.”

She smiled faintly and said: “It doesn’t matter.”

There was a pause. Levinne turned to her and said something so quickly that Green could not catch it. It sounded like:

“Extraordinary likeness to Sydney Bent. Never imagined it was there.”

Then they both stared at him again.

And suddenly he was afraid⁠—definitely childishly afraid⁠—in the same way that he remembered being afraid of the dark when he was a baby. There was something up⁠—that was how he put it to himself⁠—and these two knew it. Something about him.

He leant forward⁠—acutely apprehensive.

“What’s the matter?” he said sharply. “There’s something⁠ ⁠…”

They didn’t deny it⁠—just continued to look at him.

And his terror grew. Why couldn’t they tell a chap? They knew something that he didn’t. Something dreadful. He said again, and this time his voice was high and shrill:

“What’s the matter?”

The lady got up⁠—he noticed in the background of his mind as it were how splendidly she moved. She was like a statue he’d seen somewhere. She came round the table and laid a hand on his shoulder. She said comfortingly and reassuringly: “It’s all right. You mustn’t be frightened.”

But Green’s eyes continued to question Levinne. This man knew⁠—this man was going to tell him. What was this horrible thing that they knew and he didn’t?

“Very odd things have happened in this war,” began Levinne. “People have sometimes forgotten their own names.”

He paused significantly, but the significance was lost on Green. He said with a momentary return to cheerfulness:

“I’m not as bad as that. I’ve never forgotten my name.”

“But you have.” He stopped, then went on: “Your real name is Vernon Deyre.”

The announcement ought to have been dramatic, but it wasn’t. The words seemed to Green simply silly. He looked amused.

“I’m Mr. Vernon Deyre? You mean I’m his double or something?”

“I mean you are him.”

Green laughed frankly.

“I can’t monkey about with that stuff, sir. Not even if it means a title or a fortune! Whatever the resemblance, I’d be bound to be found out.”

Sebastian Levinne leant forward over the table and rapped out each word separately with emphasis:

“You⁠—are⁠—Vernon⁠—Deyre.”

Green stared. The emphasis impressed him.

“You’re kidding me?”

Levinne slowly shook his head. Green turned suddenly to the woman who stood beside him. Her eyes, very grave and absolutely assured, met his. She said very quietly:

“You are Vernon Deyre. We both know it.”

There was dead silence in the room. To Green, it seemed as though the whole world was spinning round. It was like a fairy story, fantastic and impossible. And yet something about these two compelled credence. He said uncertainly:

“But⁠—but things don’t happen like that. You couldn’t forget your own name!”

“Evidently⁠—since you have done so.”

“But⁠—but, look here, sir⁠—I know I’m George Green. I⁠—well, I just know it!”

He looked at them triumphantly, but slowly and remorselessly Sebastian Levinne shook his head.

“I don’t know how that’s come about,” he said. “A doctor would probably be able to tell you. But I do know this⁠—that you are my friend, Vernon Deyre. There is no possible doubt of that.”

“But⁠—but, if that’s true, I ought to know it.”

He felt bewildered, horribly uncertain. A strange sickening world where you couldn’t be sure of anything. These were kindly sane people, he trusted them. What they said must be so⁠—and yet something in him refused to be convinced. They were sorry for him⁠—he felt that. And that frightened him. There was something more yet⁠—something that he hadn’t been told.

“Who is he?” he said sharply. “This Vernon Deyre, I mean.”

“You come from this part of the world. You were born and spent most of your childhood at a place called Abbots Puissants⁠—”

Green interrupted him in astonishment.

“Abbots Puissants? Why, I drove Mr. Bleibner there yesterday. And you say it’s my old home, and I never recognized it!”

He felt suddenly buoyed up and scornful. The whole thing was a pack of lies! Of course it was! He had known it all the time. These people were honest, but they were mistaken. He felt relieved⁠—happier.

“After that you went to live near Birmingham,” continued Levinne. “You went to school at Eton and from there you went on to Cambridge. After that you went to London and studied music. You composed an opera.”

Green laughed outright.

“There you’re quite wrong, sir. Why, I don’t know one note of music from another.”

“The war broke out. You obtained a commission in the yeomanry. You were married⁠—” he paused, but Green gave no sign⁠—“and went out to France. In the spring of the following year you were reported Killed in Action.”

Green stared at him incredulously. What sort of a rigmarole was this? He couldn’t remember a thing about any of it.

“There must be some mistake,” he said confidently. “Mr. Deyre must have been what they call my ‘double.’ ”

“There is no mistake, Vernon,” said Jane Harding.

Green looked from her to Sebastian. The confident intimacy of her tone had done more to convince him than anything else. He thought: “This is awful. A nightmare. Such things can’t happen.” He began to shake all over, unable to stop.

Levinne got up, mixed him a stiff drink from materials that stood on a tray in the corner and brought it back to him.

“Swallow this,” he said. “And you’ll feel better. It’s been a shock.”

Green gulped down the draught. It steadied him. The trembling ceased.

“Before God, sir,” he said. “Is this true?”

“Before God, it is,” said Sebastian.

He brought a chair forward, sat down close by his friend.

“Vernon, dear old chap⁠—don’t you remember me at all?”

Green stared at him⁠—an anguished stare. Something seemed to stir ever so faintly. How it hurt, this trying to remember! There was something⁠—what was it? He said doubtfully:

“You⁠—you’ve grown up.” He stretched out a hand and touched Sebastian’s ear. “I seem to remember⁠—”

“He remembers your ears, Sebastian,” cried Jane and going over to the mantelpiece she laid her head down upon it and began to laugh.

“Stop it, Jane.” Sebastian rose, poured out another drink and took it to her. “Some medicine for you.”

She drank it, handed the glass back to him, smiled faintly and said: “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Green was going on with his discoveries.

“You’re⁠—you’re not a brother, are you? No, you lived next door. That’s it⁠—you lived next door⁠ ⁠…”

“That’s right, old chap.” Sebastian patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry to think⁠—it’ll come back soon. Take it easy.”

Green looked at Jane. He said timidly and politely:

“Were you⁠—are you⁠—my sister? I seem to remember something about a sister.”

Jane shook her head, unable to speak. Green flushed.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have⁠—”

Sebastian interrupted.

“You didn’t have a sister. There was a cousin who lived with you. Her name was Josephine. We called her Joe.”

Green pondered.

“Josephine⁠—Joe. Yes, I seem to remember something about that.” He paused and then reiterated pathetically: “Are you sure my name isn’t Green?”

“Quite sure. Do you still feel it is?”

“Yes⁠ ⁠… And you say I make up music⁠—music of my own? Highbrow stuff⁠—not ragtime?”

“Yes.”

“It all seems⁠—well, mad. Just that⁠—mad!”

“You mustn’t worry,” said Jane gently. “I dare say we have been wrong to tell you all this the way we have.”

Green looked from one to the other of them. He felt dazed.

“What am I to do?” he asked helplessly.

Sebastian gave an answer with decision.

“You must stay here with us. You’ve had a great shock, you know. I’ll go and square things with old Bleibner. He’s a very decent chap and he’ll understand.”

“I shouldn’t like to put him out in any way. He’s been a thundering good boss to me.”

“He’ll understand. I’ve already told him something.”

“What about the car? I don’t like to think of another chap driving that car. She’s running now as sweetly⁠—”

He was once again the chauffeur, intent on his charge.

“I know. I know.” Sebastian was impatient. “But the great thing, my dear fellow, is to get you right as soon as possible. We want to get a first-class doctor on to you.”

“What’s a doctor got to do with it?” Green was slightly hostile. “I’m perfectly fit.”

“Perhaps, a doctor ought to see you all the same. Not here⁠—in London. We don’t want any talk down here.”

Something in the tone of the speaker’s voice attracted Green’s attention. The flush came over his face.

“You mean the deserting business⁠ ⁠… ?”

“No, no. To tell the truth, I can’t get the hang of that. I mean something quite different.”

Green looked at him inquiringly.

Sebastian thought: “Well, I suppose he’s got to know sometime.” Aloud he said:

“You see, thinking you were dead, your wife has⁠—well⁠—married again.”

He was a little afraid of the effect of those words. But Green seemed to see the matter in a humorous light.

“That is a bit awkward,” he said with a grin.

“It doesn’t upset you in any way?”

“You can’t be upset by a thing you don’t remember.” He paused, as though really considering the matter for the first time. “Was Mr. Deyre⁠—I mean, was I⁠—fond of her?”

“Well⁠—yes.”

But again the grin came over Green’s face.

“And I to be so positive I wasn’t married. All the same”⁠—his face changed⁠—“it’s rather frightening⁠—all this!”

He looked suddenly at Jane, as though seeking assurance.

“Dear Vernon,” she said, “it will be all right.”

She paused, and then said in a quiet casual tone:

“You drove Mr. Bleibner over to Abbots Puissants, you say. Did you⁠—did you see anyone there? Any of the people of the house?”

“I saw Mr. Chetwynd⁠—and I saw a lady in the sunk gardens. I took her to be Mrs. Chetwynd, fair-haired and good-looking.”

“Did⁠—did she see you?”

“Yes. Seemed⁠—well, scared. Went dead-white and bolted like a rabbit.”

“Oh, God,” said Jane, and bit off the exclamation almost before it was uttered.

Green was cogitating quietly over the matter.

“Perhaps she thought she knew me,” he said. “She must have been one of them who knew him⁠—me⁠—in the old days, and it gave her a turn. Yes, that must have been it.”

He was quite happy with his solution.

Suddenly he asked: “Had my mother got red hair?”

Jane nodded.

“Then that was it.” He looked up apologetically. “Sorry. I was just thinking of something.”

“I’ll go and see Bleibner now,” said Sebastian. “Jane will look after you.”

He left the room. Green leant forward in his chair, his head held between his hands. He felt acutely uncomfortable and miserable⁠—especially with Jane. Clearly he ought to know her⁠—and he didn’t. She had said “Dear Vernon” just now. It was terribly awkward when people knew you and you felt they were strangers. If he spoke to her he supposed he ought to call her Jane⁠—but he couldn’t. She was a stranger. Still he supposed he’d have to get used to it. They’d have to be Sebastian and George and Jane together⁠—no, not George⁠—Vernon. Silly sort of name, Vernon. Probably he’d been a silly sort of chap.

“I mean,” he thought, trying desperately to force the realization upon himself, “I must have been a silly sort of chap.”

He felt horribly lonely⁠—cut off from reality. He looked up to find Jane watching him, and the pity and understanding in her eyes made him feel a shade less forlorn.

“It’s rather terrible just at first, isn’t it?” she said.

He said politely: “It is rather difficult. You don’t⁠—you don’t know where you are with things.”

“I understand.”

She said no more⁠—just sat there quietly beside him. His head jerked forward. He began to doze. In reality he only slept for a few minutes, but it seemed to him hours. Jane had turned all the lamps out but one. He woke with a start. She said quickly:

“It’s all right.”

He stared at her, his breath coming in gasps. He was still in the nightmare then, he hadn’t wakened. And there was something worse to come⁠—something he didn’t know yet. He was sure of it. That was why they all looked at him so pityingly.

Jane got up suddenly. Wildly, he cried out:

“Stay with me. Oh! please stay with me.”

He couldn’t understand why her face should suddenly twist with pain. What was there in what he had said to make her look like that? He said again: “Don’t leave me. Stay with me.”

She sat down again beside him and took his hand in hers. She said very gently:

“I won’t go away.”

He felt soothed, reassured. After a minute or two he dozed again. He woke quietly this time. The room was as before and his hand was still in Jane’s. He spoke diffidently:

“You⁠—you aren’t my sister? You were⁠—you are, I mean⁠—a friend of mine?”

“Yes.”

“A great friend?”

“A great friend.”

He paused. Yet the conviction in his mind was growing stronger and stronger. He blurted out suddenly:

“You’re⁠—you’re my wife, aren’t you?”

He was sure of it.

She drew her hand away. He couldn’t understand the look in her face. It frightened him. She got up.

“No,” she said. “I’m not your wife.”

“Oh! I’m sorry. I thought⁠—”

“It’s all right.”

And at that minute Sebastian came back. His eyes went to Jane. She said, with a little twisted smile:

“I’m glad you’ve come.⁠ ⁠… I’m⁠—glad you’ve come⁠ ⁠…”

III

Jane and Sebastian talked long into the night. What was to be done? Who was to be told?

There was Nell and Nell’s position to consider. Presumably Nell should be told first of all. She was the one most vitally concerned.

Jane agreed. “If she doesn’t know already.”

“You think she knows?”

“Well, evidently she met Vernon that day face to face.”

“Yes, but she must have thought it just a very strong resemblance.”

Jane was silent.

“Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t know.”

“But hang it all, Jane, if she’d recognized him, she’d have done something⁠—got hold of him or Bleibner. It’s two days ago now.”

“I know.”

“She can’t have recognized him. She just saw Bleibner’s chauffeur and his likeness to Vernon gave her such a shock that she couldn’t stand it and rushed away.”

“I suppose so.”

“What’s in your mind, Jane?”

“We recognized him, Sebastian.”

“You mean you did. I’d been told by you.”

“But you would have known him anywhere, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I would⁠ ⁠… But then I know him so well.”

Jane said in a hard voice: “So does Nell.”

Sebastian looked sharply at her and said, “What are you getting at, Jane?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. What do you really think happened?”

Jane paused before speaking.

“I think Nell came upon him suddenly in the garden and thought it was Vernon. Afterwards she persuaded herself that it had only been a chance resemblance that had upset her so.”

“Well, that’s very much what I said.”

He was a little surprised when she said meekly: “Yes, it is.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Practically none, only⁠—”

“Yes?”

“You and I would have wanted to believe it was Vernon even if it wasn’t.”

“Wouldn’t Nell? Surely she hasn’t come to care for George Chetwynd to such an extent⁠—”

“Nell is very fond of George, but Vernon is the only person she’s ever been in love with.”

“Then that’s all right. Or is it worse that way? It’s the deuce of a tangle. What about his people?⁠—Mrs. Deyre and the Bents?”

Jane said decidedly: “Nell must be told before they are. Mrs. Deyre will broadcast it over England as soon as she knows, and that will be very unfair to both Vernon and Nell.”

“Yes, I think you’re right. Now my plan is this. To take Vernon up to town tomorrow and go and see a specialist⁠—then be guided by what he advises.”

Jane said Yes, she thought that would be the best plan. She got up to go to bed. On the stairs she paused and said to Sebastian:

“I wonder if we’re right. Bringing him back, I mean. He looked so happy. Oh! Sebastian, he looked so happy.⁠ ⁠…”

“As George Green, you mean?”

“Yes. Are you sure we’re right?”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure. It can’t be right for anyone to be in that unnatural sort of state.”

“I suppose it is unnatural. The queer thing is he looked so normal and commonplace. And happy⁠—that’s what I can’t get over, Sebastian⁠—happy.⁠ ⁠… We’re none of us very happy, are we?”

He couldn’t answer that.