This was the first time I had seen Springfield since I had helped Edgecumbe to dig him from under a heap of rubbish in France.
They had both dined early, they said, and the night being fine, had motored over, Charlie Buller's home being only four miles from Bolivick.
Buller was a good-looking boy, fresh-coloured, curly-haired, and although in no way remarkable, quite likeable. Springfield I liked less now than when I had first seen him. His face looked paler and less wholesome than ever. The old scar which I had noticed on our first meeting revealed itself more plainly, while his somewhat sinister appearance repelled me.
Sir Thomas, however, gave him a hearty greeting, and welcomed him to his house with great cordiality. Sir Thomas had dined well, and was by this time in great good humour.
'This is splendid!' he cried, 'four men in khaki here all together! Ah, don't I wish my boys were at home to complete the party! But there, never mind, please God they'll come back.'
Springfield was introduced to Edgecumbe as though he were an entire stranger, and neither of them gave the slightest indication that they had ever met before. I wondered, as I saw them, whether Springfield had been aware of the name of the man who had, in all probability, saved him from death. I did not quite see how he could have been ignorant of it, and yet, from the way he greeted Edgecumbe, it might have been that he was in entire ignorance.
But one thing was evident to me. He hated him, and what was more, feared him. I could see his face quite plainly, and there was no mistaking the look in his eyes. The conversation I had heard while lying in that copse in France months before flashed back to my mind, and I knew that in some way the life of Captain Springfield was linked to that of Edgecumbe, and that if the truth were known evil forces were at work. What they were, I could not divine, but that they existed I had no doubt whatever.
I soon realized, too, that he exercised a great influence over young Buller. That ruddy-faced, fair-haired young fellow was but as wax in his hands. There seemed no reason why I should be disturbed at this, but I was. I was apprehensive of the future.
Another thing struck me, too. In a way, which I could not understand, he was wearing down Lorna Bolivick's former repugnance to him. As my readers may remember, she had greatly disliked him at their first meeting, and had told me in confidence that he made her think of snakes. Now she listened to him eagerly, and seemed fascinated by his presence. I had to admit, too, that the fellow talked well, and although he was anything but an Apollo in appearance, he possessed a charm of manner which I could not deny.