The Argosy — page 341: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

320 The Ghost of ‘* Ours.” Sergeant Druitt looked awkward, then said, deprecatingly : ‘He wasn’t doing any harm, sir. He'd been in my office for some time and just stepped across to look in at the mess-room window, and then he said Captain Loxdale had seen him and begged me to say nothing; so I just turned the gas out and left him in my office, when you came up, sir. You see,” Druitt continued, confidentially, ‘*T somehow fancied he’d been a swell out of luck and might have known some of you once.” Druitt had hardly finished speaking before I was on my way to the bar of the Fisherman’s Rest. An elderly, decent landlady directed me to Mr. Bird’s room overhead. I found my way, knocked gently, and entered without ceremony, for I felt that all I had to do must be done at white heat. If I stopped to cool, all was lost. The occupant of the room was sitting writing, with his back turned to me. He rose and looked round, much amazed, as I entered, looking on closer inspection not nearly so like the face in my mind as I had fancied ; also, which disconcerted me greatly, he was much older than I. I had not realised that ten years had elapsed since Harry Ormsby was a heedless youngster. However, I said, ‘‘ Mr. Bird, I believe,” and went on to introduce myself; and, the first plunge over, found myself lying with an ease and fluency that justified the popular comparison. ‘‘T believe you are able to give me news of a very old friend of mine, Mr. Ormsby, of my regiment, the Royal Manx.” He gave me a stare of incredulity, and then a rapid glance at the door. ‘A friend of yours—I—really don’t know any such person.” ‘‘He disappeared,” I went on to say, ‘but one at least of his friends has never given up the hope of his return, and it is on her behalf I am here to-day.” ‘‘T am sorry I cannot assist you,” said Bird, briefly, as he turned to his writing with a suggestive movement. ‘‘ Good-day, sir.” I wasn’t going, not a bit of it, if I stayed there arguing the point of his identity all night. ‘‘T have a letter here for him of the greatest importance, and give it to him I must, somehow. A confession and justification.” Bird was turning over his papers with his long, sensitive, lady’s fingers: I saw them twitch nervously. If he had maintained his in- different demeanour I should have been puzzled what to say further, but he turned a little and said over his shoulder: ‘I have given you your answer, Mr. Rivers. I don’t know why you persist in applying to me,” and then I saw his large blue eyes wander round and fix them- selves hungrily on the big, blue envelope. I marched up to him: ‘Read that, and see for yourself,” and I opened it out and laid it on the table in front of him. He did read it, his face turned away from me. I let him get to the last page and then spoke. ‘Bird of the Artillery, if you are not Harry Ormsby, or his ghost Gomicbooks €or