It was the work of a moment only to dash forward and seize him, to find himself engaged in a sharp wrestle, to half draw his pistol as he struggled with his captive in the open.
But once in the clearer light, he started, his grasp of the stranger relaxed, and he fell back in bewildered terror.
"Edward Blandford! Good God!" The pistol had dropped from his hand as he leaned breathless against a tree.

The stranger kicked the weapon contemptuously aside.

Then quietly adjusting his disordered dress, and picking the brambles from his sleeve, he said with the same air of disdain, "Yes! Edward Blandford, whom you thought dead! There! I'm not a ghost--though you tried to make me one this time," he said, pointing to the pistol.
Demorest passed his hand across his white face.

"Then it's you--and you have come here for--for--Joan ?" "For Joan ?" echoed Blandford, with a quick scornful laugh, that made the blood flow back into Demorest's face as from a blow, and recalled his scattered senses.

"For Joan," he repeated.