"Perhaps I shan't, when we come to the end of the heath and get into the
public street, where there are lights and people," he said. "That I
always look the same in your eyes, Miss Lorne, is because I have but one
face for you, and that is my real one. Not many people see it, even
among the men of The Yard whom I occasionally work with. You do,
however; so does Mr. Narkom, occasionally. So did that boy,
unfortunately. I had to show it when I came to your assistance, if only
to assure you that you were in friendly hands and to prevent you taking
fright and running off into the mist in a panic and losing yourself
where even I might not be able to find you. That is why I told the boy
to apply for work to 'Captain Burbage of Clarges Street.' _I_ am Captain
Burbage, Miss Lome. Nobody knows that but my good friend Mr. Narkom and,
now, you."

"I shall respect it, of course," she said. "I hope I need not assure you
of that, Mr. Cleek."

"You need assure me of nothing, Miss Lome," he made reply. "I owe so
much more to you than you are aware, that--Oh, well, it doesn't matter.
You asked me a question a moment ago. If you want the answer to it--look
here."

He stopped short as he spoke; the pocket-torch clicked faintly and from
the shelter of a curved hand, the glow of it struck upward to his face.
It was not the same face for ten seconds at a time. What Sir Horace
Wyvern had seen in Mr. Narkom's private office at Scotland Yard on that
night of nights more than two years ago, Sir Horace Wyvern's niece saw
now.