Ireton got his release, and the weekly papers applauded.
But in Mortimer Street we saw him no more. Some one said that he had gone
to live in Paris; some one else reported that he had purchased an estate in
Bucks. Presently he was forgotten.
Some three years went by, and I was spending the autumn at a village by the
New Forest. One day I came upon a man kneeling under a hedge, examining
some object on the ground,--fern or flower, or perhaps insect. His costume
showed that he was no native of the locality; I took him for a stray
townsman, probably a naturalist. He wore a straw hat and a rough summer
suit; a wallet hung from his shoulder. The sound of my steps on crackling
wood caused him to turn and look at me. After a moment's hesitation I
recognised Ireton.
And he knew me; he smiled, as I had often seen him smile, with a sort of
embarrassment. We greeted each other.
'Look here,' he said at once, when the handshaking was over, 'can you tell
me what this little flower is?'
I stooped, but was unable to give him the information he desired.
'You don't go in for that kind of thing?'
'Well, no.'
'I'm having a turn at it. I want to know the flowers and ferns. I have a
book at my lodgings, and I look the things up when I get home.
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