“Then the meeting came—­six months ago.  I heard Flint House was let, though not to whom.  The news did not interest me.  But next evening, when I returned from my rounds, my servant met me at the door with the information that the new tenant of Flint House was in the consulting-room waiting to see me.

“I went in.  The tall elderly figure sitting there rose at my entrance and said:  ‘Not a patient, doctor—­quite another matter.’  I started slightly at the familiar ring to that harsh authoritative voice, but I did not know who he was until he handed me his card.  He had already commenced talking about that accursed title as he did so, and he did not notice my agitation.  He had come to Cornwall in pursuit of the last pieces of evidence for his family tree, and some local busybody had told him that I was versed in Cornish antiquities and heraldry.  That piece of information had brought him to me.  He begged for my assistance—­my valuable assistance—­in elucidating the last scraps of his genealogy from the graves of the past.

“I could have cut him short by laughing aloud—­though not in mirth.  I had regained my self-command, for I saw that he had not the slightest suspicion to whom he was talking.  That in itself was not surprising.  I had not recognized him.  And how much greater was the change in my own case!  Time alters us all in a much less period than thirty years, and there was more than the passage of time.  Those months of horrible solitude on that island had changed me into an old man in appearance, with grey hair, and bleared and weak eyes from the sulphur fumes.  And Time had made the disguise impenetrable in the thirty added years.  I was an old man.  My hair and beard were white, and I wore thick glasses.  I felt I need be under no apprehension of Robert Turold recognizing me—­then, or at any time, unless I was careless.

“His request for my help had a strange fascination for me.  There was an uncanny thrill in sitting there within an arm’s length of him, meeting his unsuspicious glance, and listening to him with the knowledge that I could have put his plans and ambitions to flight with a single word, and had him begging for mercy.  I was in the position of Providence, and withheld my hand, as Providence generally does.  My desire to punish Robert Turold had long since died.  At sixty, revenge is a small thing.  What is human retribution to the ferocity of Time’s revenge on us all?  Retribution and Justice—­these are human catchwords, signifying nothing.  What is Justice?  Who is to judge when the scales are even?  It was easier to comply with his request than arouse suspicion by refusal, but that wasn’t what weighed with me.  I wanted to see more of him, to win his confidence, if possible.  I was curious to know what kind of life he had given the woman for whose sake I had let him go free for thirty years.