Was he this
man re-born? Did the dead come back and live again? Was it a dream, or
had he actually lived over a chapter from a past existence? He was a
practical man-of-the-world, not a vague dreamer--but all nature was
a mystery; this would be no stranger than the general mystery of life
itself. And he was not only this man reproduced in every line
and feature; he had his nature as well. His grandmother had never
mentioned her husband's name, but the Dartmouths had been less
reticent. They were fond of reiterating anecdotes of Lionel
Dartmouth's lawless youth, of his moody, melancholy temperament, and
above all, of the infallible signs he had shown of great genius. That
his genius had borne no fruit made no difference in their estimate; he
had died too soon, that was all--died of fever in Constantinople, the
story ran; there had never been a suggestion of scandal. And he had
come back to earth to fulfill the promise of long ago, and to give to
the world the one splendid achievement of that time. It had triumphed
over death and crime and revenge--but--He recalled those nights
of conflict in his mind.
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