"It's to be hoped that he will have no such memory. I can't see, indeed,
how he should recognise either of us. Our disguises were complete. Your
whiskers taken off, leave you as far from any resemblance to what you
were in that affair, as any two men can well be from one another; and I
am perfectly satisfied he has little knowledge of me."

"How should he?" retorted the other. "The better part of valor saved you
from all risk of danger or discovery alike; but the case is different
with me. It may be that, enjoying the happiness which I have lost, he
has forgotten the now miserable object that once dared to aspire--but no
matter--it may be that I am forgotten by him--he can never be by me."

This speech, which had something in it vague and purposeless to the mind
of Munro, was uttered with gloomy emphasis, more as a soliloquy than a
reply, by the speaker. His hands were passed over his eyes as if in
agony, and his frame seemed to shudder at some remote recollection which
had still the dark influence upon him. Munro was a dull man in all
matters that belong to the heart, and those impulses which characterize
souls of intelligence and ambition. He observed the manner of his
companion, but said nothing in relation to it; and the latter, unable to
conceal altogether, or to suppress even partially his emotions, did not
deign to enter into any explanation in regard to them.

"Does he suspect anything yet, Guy, think you?--have you seen anything
which might sanction a thought that he knew or conjectured more than he
should?" inquired Munro, anxiously.

"I will not say that he does, but he has the perception of a lynx--he is
an apt man, and his eyes have been more frequently upon me to-day than I
altogether relish or admire. It is true, mine were upon him--as how,