"Yes," I answered.

"Your name then is Guy Ducaine?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever know your father?"


It was a singular question. I looked at him quickly. His face was
sphinxlike.

"No. Why do you ask? Did you?"

He ignored me absolutely for several moments. His whole attention
seemed fixed upon the curling wreath of blue smoke which hung between
us.

"He died, I suppose," he continued, "when you were about twelve years
old."

I nodded.

"My uncle," I said, "gave me a holiday and a sovereign to spend. He
told me that a great piece of good fortune had happened to me."

Colonel Ray smiled grimly.

"That was like old Stephen Ducaine," he remarked. "He died himself a
few years afterwards."